In Blood and Fire
by forestofmyown
Summary: Amnesiac Erin's first new memories are of pain and loss. Devoted utterly to Martin, determined not to fail him like they failed Uriel, Erin will go to any lengths for the young Emperor; farther, in fact, than Martin would have ever wished.
1. Chapter 1 - Tutorial

**Obviously going for eventual Martin/Erin, but this story is going to address subjects such as self harm, suicidal thoughts, death, gender, and a bunch of other mature topics. This is not going to be a healthy relationship by the end. Should follow the main plots closely enough up until after Martin dies and the Shivering Isles quests.**

* * *

My head aches. It pulses, throbs, has me cringing before I can even tell which way is up. My cheek rubs against cold, hard stone, digging tiny picks of dirt and rock into my skin and past my lips. I open my mouth to sputter, and only inhale more of the dank dust in the air. I'm coughing now on top of everything, and somehow I'm miserable already.

I push myself up, slowly. I'm far too heavy—why do I feel so heavy? It's not normal, not the weight I'm used to. Every part of me aches now, not just my head. My arms are sore and barely hold me up, my legs are shaking and I'm only on my knees. Everything is dark and I blink rapidly, trying to adjust. My eyes burn much like my throat. My chest is tight, shoulders thrumming with pain.

What is wrong with me?

I start to adjust to the light—or lack thereof. Only thin streams of white-gold come provide any illumination at all, shining in through a short rows of bars high on the wall in front of me. There are walls on either side of me, too. All made of the same gritty stonework as the floor, where my face had been pressed.

It's chilly, smells of rainwater and mold, and nothing looks familiar.

Wobbling slightly, I lean myself against the wall and push the rest of the way to my feeet, then collapse against it, back on the coolness of the stonework. It sends a small respite through me.

I can now see the forth wall of my room—or cell, as it turns out. There's just bars and a locked gate. A cell.

"Oh, look. You're finally awake."

Across the hall from me, the inhabitant of another cell stirs. He approaches his bars, smiling cruelly.

"I was begining to wonder if maybe they hadn't just thrown a dead body in there. You certainly stink like one."

I take a stuttering, gasping breath involuntarily, cough agian, and take a moment to try and even out my breathing. I just want to fall back over and sleep. Everything hurts, is so heavy, heavy.

"Oh, maybe I spoke too soon. You hardly look like you'll last very long at all. I suppose I best not get used to the company then, ehehehe." He laughs. His red eyes almost glow in the pale darkness.

He might be right, though. I feel so weak. Empty inside, aching. So much aching. Why is the air so heavy? Or is that just me? What happened? Why does it hurt so much? Where am I? How did I get here?

I try to straighten up, but the world twists and tumbles. There's a wooden table—I hit it, hard, as I go down—and then there's just the cold, damp stone again, rough against my cheek.

Everything hurts. Everything.

Why get up? Just lay here. Lay.

He doesn't stop talking, though; that Dunmer in the cell across from mine. My head pounds with his every word, makes the sound bounce around my head. My ears ring. The world spins around me, even though I know that's impossible; I'm still pressed to the floor. It's so cold.

"Hm, should I call the guards? They probably won't care; they threw you down here to die, anyway. Did you know? It must be so tragic for you, in a stone cell, surrounded but nothing but rock and iron, underground, so far from the beautiful trees and grassy glades of Valenwood. Are the walls closing in, Bosmer? Can you even breathe?"

My heart is thudding too quickly. I don't know what's wrong with me. Is he right? Am I dying?

"Before you snuff it, can you answer a question for me? Are you a man or a woman? I just can't tell—you have such a delicate, pretty face. But you don't look built like a woman at all from here; all angles and frumpiness. It makes for an ugly combination, really."

He prattles on, but his voice isn't the only thing echoing around the halls anymore. The clanging of a door, the scuffle of footsteps . . .

There's someone coming.

"It looks like I won't have to call the guards after all. They've come to finish you off, put you out of your misery. Don't worry, Bosmer, it'll all be over soon!"

He's laughing again. His voice is grating. But by the gods, I won't meet my end laying on the floor without a fight.

I stand. My joints are still sore. All my muscles ache. The dull pounding in my head hasn't stopped. The Dunmer's silent. The sound of voices is nearing.

Stepping slowly, I reach the door and lean against it, feeling it give just a tiny bit before the lock catches it in place. I realize my hands are shackled, rusted iron manacles chaffing against my skin. The room, and now the accompanying hall, are still spinning, but this new flurry of activity is giving me something to think about besides the pain in my skull.

A small group appears, coming down a spiral stone staircase at the end of the hall. One is carrying a torch, and they are all dressed in full armor—all but one, hidden in there midst as though guarded, a treasure. The one with the torch gives me a dark look and I quickly back away towards the far wall of my cell. Pebbles dig into the soles of my feet.

The guards are barking at each other, frantic. One voice cuts above the others.

"What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be off limits!"

They are all standing around my gate, a mixture of concern and fury in their eyes. There's only four of them, I can see now. They must be in a hurry, as the woman who spoke before cuts off her companion's stuttering excuse.

"Stay where you are, prisoner. Don't move. Or we _will_ strike you down."

I obey. I wouldn't pose much of a threat even if I didn't. The walls continue to twist and tilt as the gate swings open and a guard stomps towards me.

I wonder, for a moment, if he'll simply kill me. But he stops short, appearing to merely stand sentinal between whatever threat they see me posing and their precious cargo. Behind him, their treasure is ushered in.

He is just an old man. Dressed regally enough, yes, adorned with large gems, golden jewelry, and fine robes of purple, red, and fur. But he is an old man none the less, with shoulder length white hair that was probably thick once, thinning with age now, and a wrinkled old face, round and pale.

He appears startled by the sight of me.

"You . . . "

He knows me. What an odd thought. He does not seem familiar to me.

Nothing does.

"You are the one from my dreams." His tone is breathless, shocked, his eyes wide and bright, a brilliant blue against how ethereal he appears. Almost all of us, gathered around him, are darker. My own hands, covered in dirt and grime, are a warm, coppery brown. Two of the guards are darker still, though the woman is pink and creamy. The old man almost looks like he could fade away.

I narrow my eyes at him. How do you know someone from _dreams_? Is he _truly_ fading, memories and thoughts all a mix in his head as old age robs him of reason and rationale?

He is obviously someone important, so I do not reply. If a false memory and his influence could have some pull and free me from this hole in the ground, who am I to say otherwise?

But these are not important thoughts—only selfish ones. There is something very wrong going on here.

"If you are here, then . . . this is the day. Gods give me strength."

His eyes shut and he gives a heavy sigh, his whole face falling. But when he opens them again, he still appears strong. No fading old man.

"Your Majesty?" _Royalty._ A guard steps a bit closer to him, eyeing me. "Do you know this pri—person?"

Opinions of me are already changing, just by a few simple words. But to what end?

"We need to keep moving," the female snaps.

"She's right," I say, my voice causing a painful scratching in my throat. "You must not waste time."

"How do you know that?" The third guard pulls his blade, glaring me down. "What do you know of the attempts on his Majesty's life?"

"He's being escorted through the prison by armed guards who are obviously in a hurry." I keep my tone even. "Of course he mustn't waste time. You are most likely pursued."

A thought jumps into my mind, clicking pieces into place. "Is there some route of escape through here? You should not be slowing down to speak with the likes of me. Go."

"You do not give orders to our Emperor." The Redguard growls.

Emperor. This is very, very bad then.

"It doesn't matter." The woman has opened a passage in my cell, a wall giving way to a tunnel that seems to run deeper under the prison. "We truly must go, please your Majesty."

He nods to her. I expect them to go, but am surprised when he turns yet again my way.

"Come with me."

"Your Majesty! We cannot take this _convict_ with us—"

I flinch back, but the Emperor turns on his guard with steel in his gaze.

"Whatever crime they have commited does not matter. It is the gods who have put them on this path with us, and they must follow it to the end. They come. I trust them, and so you must trust me."

There is no arguing with an emperor. There is resentment all around, but when he follows the woman into the tunnel, the other two wait for me to follow after him before closing ranks behind us.

"Leave it open," the leader calls back. "There's no way to open it from this side."

"Is there any hope in turning back if we are ambushed?" I ask.

"More than there is in being trapped down here with no escape."

"Even if we are followed? Surrounded?"

She is losing her patience with me. "Would it be better that we were trapped against a dead-end if the sewers are flooded with assassins?"

I concede the point.

The silence does not last long.

"What is your name?"

The Emperor gives me a small smile as we walk.

My mouth opens. No sound comes out. No thought is there to answer. I literally stumble, almost stop, and then have one clear moment of sense enough to move away from the Emperor as I try to steady myself. My sudden movements have the guards reacting quickly, hands on their swords, and they only settle back as it becomes apparent I was not attacking.

The tunnel has given way to ruins of some long forgotten structure. It's ornate, beautifully carved, with large columns and crumbling details.

"Are you alright?"

I nod, even though it is a lie. "I . . . cannot remember my name, your Majesty."

I cannot remember . . . _anything_.

He seems just as shocked as I, and then his face softens, his hand reaches out and rests on my shoulder. He starts to speak—

And the captain cries out.

The two guards rush past me to her side, but she is already down, blood seeping from her armor, eyes wide and unseeing, frozen in surprise.

We are assaulted. There are four of them, wrapped in in a fierce light, garbed in jet black armor over crimson cloth. Even their faces are masked in the black, hidden behind a blank expression of metal.

Maces collide with katana. The guards slash at their foes, but are outnumbered. Two come charging past, headed our way. The Emperor shrinks back, pulling a silver shortsword.

I twist in front of him and am caught across the collar with a slice of pain by a blade. Swinging my arm around, I feel a pulsing blaze bubble beneath my skin, coursing through the veins in my arm, riding up my flesh until it bursts, burning, from my palm. I cry out, and fire roars, engulfing the assassin in heat. It catches their clothing, burns bright against the dark of his armor, and heats the metal against their skin.

Again. I need to do that again!

One assassin stumbles back, startled, then rushes forward once more, their companion at their side, flames sputtering out. I feel the heat build in my chest, up my neck and across my shoulders, and I am the one roaring this time as fireballs are tossed from my clawing hands.

The flames blind them for a moment, and I throw myself forward into one, tossing us both down a flight of stairs. Everything is spinning, pounding, burning, but this one is still moving under me, and I press my hands to their mask, pumping heat into them, and I can hear their screaming as it sears their face. They hack at me wildly with there mace, tearing at the skin on my arm, grazing my cheek as I strain my neck away. Soon their pain is too much for even that little retaliation.

I feel powerful.

But this is only one of our enemies. Leave them; get the others!

I want to finish them, make them stop moving, but there are four, four to fight, three others that could kill, this one is down, behind, check behind—

I leave the screaming figure, twisting back on to my feet and stumbling, unsteady, in a rush back up the steps to the figure flailing against the Emperor's meager defenses. I launch spell after spell against them, gasping for air, charging, and they are down before I reach him.

A quick look shows no immediate injuries, the Emperor still on his feet. Two more, find them—

Turning back around, I find only bodies. Black armor disintigrates into the air, leaving only blood red robes and dead carcasses. The threat is gone, and the two guards are sheething their swords.

Over. Over. It's over.

For now.

I can barely breathe. My pulse is thrumming, pumping energy through me, and I can barely see straight. It's so hot. My arm is searing, my cheek throbbing, my collar a combination of the two.

Trying to swallow, I find myself parched. My eyes burn when I close them. I take in deep gulps of air, slowly. I must calm down. I am safe now. _We_ are all safe now.

The body at the Emperor's feet is still smoking, a pile of collapsed limps.

A few steps has me standing at the top of those few steps, the prostrate, hooded form laying sprawled at the bottom. The face stairs straight up in silent agony, skin almost gone, burst bubbles of blood and puss marring what was once a woman's face.

Death. I have dealt death.

The stink of seared flesh, released bowels, and blood polutes the air.

I manage two steps back before I fall, and I can't even pick myself up to avoid the mess when I vomit. I can't see. The world is black, everything hurts, I can't think, can't move.

"Air. I need Air. Air. Air."

It hurts.

"Are you alright?"

"Leave them—your Majesty, we have to go."

"They need our help!"

The emperor's voice is powerful, but the two remaining guards are urgent.

"The assassins aren't after _them,_ your Majesty. They're safer where they are. We need to get you out of here. Please."

"They're injuries aren't fatal, they're just exhausted—they should never have been mixed up in this to begin with. We're doing them a favor."

The voices are mixing, slowing, fading. There's some arguing, indistinct. Everything seems far away.

It hurts. I need air. Air.

* * *

There's a new pain. I'm barely aware, but it's there, strange. Tickling, biting, gnawing.

I flinch away from it. There's a high pitched sqeak, pinching, more pain.

Gasping, my eyes shoot open. I try to push myself up onto my knees. A large rat lunges for my throat.

"Gah!"

I shuffle back, swing my hand around, and feel the momentary swell of heat beneath my skin before the creature goes up in shriek of pain and fire. It skuttles away from me, but another has attacked itself to my leg, has bite down deep to the bone.

Grabbing it by the scruff of the neck, I sear it, fur, skin, and the muscle beneath. It convulses as it boils from the inside. Dropping it, I raise my hand and simply hold it steady. Fire flashes forth, claiming the other rat feet away.

My breathing is heavy, but the panic is abating. I just feel tired. The full body ache is returning. There are bites all over me, chunks of flesh torn away, gaps in my skin. My previous injuries are still bleeding, still screaming for my attention.

I press my palm over one of the bleeding wounds, feel the flesh mold beneath my fingers, slick with blood. Gods, the room stinks so much.

Glaring down at my hand, I concentrate. As instinctual as the flames I had used in battle, a new feeling threads its way down my arm. Not hot, but a weightlessness, instant relief. A glow trails across my skin with the sensation, blooms from my hand, and is absorbed into my leg. Raising my arm, I find the wound gone. So is the ache in my muscles there that have plagued me.

I repeat the process all over my body, finding every bite, scratch, cut, gash, or pain and pressing that saving glow into it. I have to down a weak potion of sorcery I scrounged from a dead assassin, but by the time I'm done, even the tiredness and dizzy spells have been chased away.

The smell has not. The room is still littered with the bodies of the dead; four foes, the captain of the emperor's guard, and two burnt rats. My vomit barely registers in the churning stench of lost life.

Slowly, I stand and make my way around them, down the steps, past the blistered face of the woman I'd killed, and to the gate. Somewhere in these tunnels, the Emperor is still on the run, and more of the assassins could be laying in wait. I don't know how long I've been unconscious; I have to catch up. Even if the other guards don't want me there, this is too important to just stand aside and let the man's fate be decided without trying to make a difference.

The door is wooden, solid despite it's age and disuse. It's also locked.

I could burn it down. But that would waste energy. I don't have an unlimited amount of magic, and I've pushed myself enough as it is. I can feel the strain trying to restore itself inside me, but the almost-emptiness is there.

Backing up, I search the room. It isn't large. And the hole in the wall is obvious enough—the size of a rat.

Falling to my knees, I begin to dig at the crumbling stonework, first with my hands, then with a rock. I chip away at the morter, the dirt behind it, working inward, inward, towards the faint glow behind. Soon enough, the space is adequate. I crawl through.

The cavern is large, with rough dirt columns scattered about, obviously old, makeshift supports for the surface above from long ago when this might have been used. There are cracks in the ceiling above, shafts of daylight filtering through, illuminating the area.

There's also another rat. I despense with it quickly, low on magicka or not. I can still feel the gnawing of those elongated teeth through my skin, hitting bone. It makes my skin crawl.

Shuffling forward, I find crates littered about the room, remnants of when this place was maybe a storage area. There's little inside, but what's there is mostly useful: lockpicks, torches, a weapon or two, some gold. I pocket a rusty dagger and the lockpicks, forego the torches (I can light fires in my palm if I have need, after all) and ignore the scattered coins that would take too long to pick up individually. Priorities.

Sticking to the light, I travel along the wall. And find a body.

It's a skeleton now, so old not a bit of flesh is left that I can see. It's garbed in leather armor, a shield and bow piled at its side. It's directly below a hole in the ceiling. Some poor fool that fell through and had no chance.

I send a silent prayer to Arkay . . . and stop, startled by how easily the name of a god came to me. I have knowledge then. But my name—

I swallow. There is no time to think on that. As reverently as I can, I pull the bones from the armor and put it on myself, tossing aside my sackcloth. The whole ensamble is made for someone of a much bigger build than I, and sags on my frame. But illfitted protection, at least in this case, is better than nothing—at least, I hope so as I tug my ponytail from beneath the cuirass and let hang free. I note apathetically that I have pitch black hair, thick and straight.

The boots feel uncomfortable, and I don't think it's the fit. They stomp loudly with every step; I take them off quickly, opting for bare feet instead. I make a similar decision about the guantlets and helmet, opting to go without. It feels better, despite the lack of protection. Oh well, I have a healing spell.

Lastly, I take a lockpick and pause over my shackles; after a curious moment I put the pick away and run a hand over the lock. There's a subtle glow, a quiet click, and they come off easily enough. Huh. That's a handy spell. I hold the manacles out, ready to drop them. They hang there in my grip, one second, two.

Slipping them back on, I flex my arms to test the weight, then head off again.

A dead goblin provides a few more trinkets and warning of what else might lay in store for me when I find the door.

More rats. Gods, I hate this place.

But this room gives way to tunnels, and I hope I'm making progress in the right direction as I follow them. A whole swarm of rats ambushes me around one corner, and I make to fry them—only to find them distracted by yet another foe.

Rotted flesh hanging from a sickly frame, green and black and rank. Naked, almost hairless, and spotted with holes, the undead being swats with annoyed grunts at the rodents as they take nips at his body. By the Nine, it's disgusting.

I launch my flames from a safe distance. Over and over again I toss balls of fire their way, watching as, one by one, the shrieking little beasts fall. But the zombie does not go down so quickly. With the rats gone, it turns its eyes to me, and charges.

My magicka is all but run out. Fumbling with my sack, I pull the tiny potion bottle I'd taken from the goblin and down it—feeling the blossom of power inside me grow expenentially, flood me. The fire is back at my fingertips, the zombie is upon me, I'm back away as I surge the flames foward, roasting him. Dimwitted in death, the creature doesn't even try to evade. Just as I feel my back collide with the wall behind me, cutting off my retreat, the dead man falls—for good.

Sighing, I take the long way around him and recover my lost distance down the tunnel.

Despite being fairly large targets, the rats continue to be a menace to me in my progress. The are evasive, persistant, excellent jumpers, and never ending. My magicka, on the other hand, is not. I'm quickly reduced to flailing wildly with my pilfered dagger while waiting for my magic to recover. The blade is rusted almost beyond use, and requires more stabbing than slicing to do any damage. It doesn't feel _bad_ in my hand, though, and I quickly find a rhythm with it enough to not get eaten alive, at least.

I also find food. It's startling to realize how starving you are so suddenly just at the sight of a head of lettuce and a slice of cheese, especially when both items are laying in a pile of dirt and bones, and have chewed marks on them from these ungodly critters I've been slaughtering.

But they appear fresh enough, dropped through the iron grate above fairly recently, by all appearances. Swallowing my misgivings, I dust them off and stuff them in my mouth as I rush on—two slices of cheese, the whole head of lettuce, and a bruised tomato. I try not to think about the taste, or what had been eating them before me. My previously emptied stomach needs the sustainance.

Sometimes the dirt walls give way to true stonework and wooden support beams, and I have hope I'm on the right track. The thought that I'm going completely the wrong way, or that there is no escape at all through here, plagues me, but I push on none the less. I have little choice. I will not return to my cell.

And should I find escape, but not the Emperor?

. . . I would go back, and burn that locked door down.

I don't know why. It feels right. I cannot just let someone be hunted. Possibly die. I can't.

Am I a moral person then, that I should be so concerned for the life of another when my own life is at stake as well? What sort of moral person wakes up in a prison cell with amnesia, but can recall the name of all the gods with ease? Reacts on instinct with fire in battle, whose first impulse said to make sure the enemy died, not just was unable to fight, yet throws up at the sights and smells of death?

I am a mystery to myself. My stomach churns in protests of my anxious thoughts.

Push them away. Find the Emperor. Save him.

That is what matters, not me.

I find hope that I am headed in the right direction as the tunnels begin to show more signs of life. The fact that these signs of life are goblins is something I try not to let get me down.

The monsterous little people are green and grey and garbed in the bones of dead men, armed with actual weapons and basic sense of how to fight—and kill. Still, I find the battles that ensue still preferrable to the rats. I hate the rats.

Soon enough I realize that fire and knifework go well together, not just as replacements for each other, and I develop a nice little style of my own that involves heat and flame and blade and moments of healing that has me overthrowing my goblin adversaries. The panic of battle starts to give under the cold thought of strategy, and I find I am much more efficient as I ignore the pounding of my heart and _think_. It's also easier to just take hits and heal after the battle than waste time defending when I could be attacking—probably not the best method, but it works for me. Pain is not something I enjoy, but I am by no means fast on my feet or very good at fending off attackers.

I also find the goblins have taken to roasting the rats and eating them. The idea is not appetizing, but I snatch up a seared steak anyway and wolf it down as I continue.

Ahead, my tunnel finally gives way to the handiwork of man—I am back in the crumbling halls like before. I can even hear the soft echo of voices.

I jump down from the hole that my cavern ends in onto the smooth stone floor, and move swiftly towards the voices. I find myself on a ledge above—

And the Emperor and his guards below. I've found them.

But so have the assassins.

As an enemy jumps from above to join his comrade in an ambush below, so do I leap from my perch and rush into battle in a whirl of flames. My tromp through the underground seemed to have taken forever, but it appears to have been worth it—I have found any warrior that I might have forgotten in myself with the practice I acrued defending myself, and my flames flare brighter and hotter than before as I take down the black armored fiend.

This battle is over much faster than the other had been. I feel more confident, quick, practiced, because fighting _people_ still causes a turning in my stomach, and I take as many hits as I give. I'm running healing spells over myself when the two guards round on me.

"You again! And you appear right when the assassins find us again! Accomplice!"

I narrow my eyes. "Certainly. That's why I keep helping you kill my fellow assassins. The perfect sense it all makes."

"Why you—"

"Enough!" The Emperor's word silences us both. "They are not our enemy, but our aid. The gods have brought you to us again, and so no more will we part before the end."

He looks to me now, and I give a partial bow to show my respect. But what he's said leaves a twisting in my gut that I do not like, let alone understand. I don't comment on it, though. "As you say, sire."

The angry guard grudgingly relents as well. "At your word, your Majesty."

The other guard taps me on the shoulder and hands me an unlit torch. He, at least, does not appear hostile. "Make yourself useful."

I take the stick in hand flick my fingers at the rag wrapped around the top. It ignites easily.

"Let's get moving." Angry guard in the lead, we start walking.

"You appear to be natural with magic," the Emperor comments lightly, as though this were only a casual stroll. "Were you born under a sign that governs the art?"

"The Mage," I reply without thinking. Oh.

With a knowing smile, he merely continues. "Then you will be celebrating your birth soon."

"Will I? I do not know the date."

"This is the twenty-seventh of Last Seed, the Year of Akatosh 433. These are the closing days of the Third Era . . . and the final hours of my life."

He says it easily, with no moroseness or finality, and yet no doubt. He catches my look and continues to smile, his face soft.

"My sons are dead. I feel it in my heart. I've seen my end coming; in dreams of darkness and fortunes of doom. Your presense here is my certainity. Try as my guards might, I will not survive this day."

The guard behind me steps closer. "Please do not speak like this, Sire."

The Emperor smiles at him, too. "My hope is that the two of you will not fall in my defense. No matter what happens, please do not blame yourself. My destiny is laid out before me, and I meet it gladly."

"How?" It's hard to ask; my throat is tight.

"The Nine have blessed me in this foreknowledge. I have known the circumstances of my death for some time, and I have made peace. I am ready. It is the lot of all that live to face their mortality, and I have had long to prepare. Eighty-seven years I have walked this earth, and for sixty-five I have ruled Tamriel as her Emperor. And though it has not been easy, I know I have been blessed."

There is an strained silence at his pronouncement. The only sound is the scuff of our shoes on the floor as we walk.

I work up to speaking, gathering my thoughts. "I don't—"

Turning my head away, I catch movement. I've dropped the torch and my dagger is out, sentence forgotten, as the next wave of assassins charges us with cries of death upon the old man.

There is a queezy feeling inside me as I swing my blade. An emptiness, and yet . . . an underlying anger. He does not deserve this. I do not know him, I do not know his rule, and yet . . . his smile is soft and sad and kind, sad for others and not himself, and he is dignified but not proud.

And these people want to kill him. For what reason? He says this is his fate, the gods have chosen it. Why? I hate it. I hate it with a ferosity I do not understand. From memories I do not have?

I take a mace with a blocking shoulder, pain shooting through me. Abandoning my dagger, I grab the mace, yank the assassin forward and into one of his associates. I wrap my arms around both of them, then feel the fire flare up at the back of my neck, over my shoulders, burst from my hands and engulf us. I am ablaze, buried under a haze of stiffling heat, fire licking at my from all sides.

The black armor in my embrace goes up like dust in my fires, signalling their summoners' deaths, and I squash the flames in a huff. Breathing heavy, I check on the others; the guards have slain the last two, the Emperor stands uninjured.

But for how long? Hours? Minutes? In a blood of blood like that guard woman, left in this old maze of passages to be forgotten in time? What kind of god plans something like this?

"If this is your end down here," I say to him, and nod to the guards standing feet from me, "we meet it with you. And so do as many of them as we can take with us."

I kick one of the assassins at my feet. The motion is callous, and my stomach twists, but I stand by my words. These were evil people to try and murder this man. I will not be sorry I defended myself and him.

The angry guard looks at me with something like grudging respect. "A convict with honor, are you? Well said none the less."

He claps me on my uninjured shoulder as he trudges past. The other picks up the torch and hands it back to me with a nod. With the Emperor between the two of them, and I beside him, we continue, letting my magic recover and healing periodically while we walk.

But my words are not the last on the subject.

"I do not know of my guards, but it is not your fate to fall here."

His words are quiet, but heavy, as is his gaze when I meet it.

"In your face, I behold the sun's companion. The dawn of Akatosh's bright glory may banish the coming darkness. Besides this, I do not know your destiny. But it is enough to give me hope, and strength at the last."

I don't know how to reply to that. His words feel weighted on my heart. This man is a stranger to me, but when all men are strangers, such things seem to not matter. His kindness—and his resignation—eat at me.

So when the next assault is mounted against us, I kill. When their bodies fall, I do not look at them. The air around me simmers.

"Can't you stop that?" The angry guard is back to being angry. "It's so hot I can hardly breathe."

I shrug. "I am merely trying to be efficient, my magic at the ready. Would you have me be unprepared to defend our Emperor?"

"A felon we drug out of a prison cell shouldn't be defending the Emperor at all." He snaps back, eyes narrowing. "What were you in for, anyway?"

My throat tightens again.

"You don't know?" I ask mockingly.

He growls.

It is the Emperor who responds. "It hardly matters. Perhaps it was merely the gods positioning our fates to intertwine."

"They could be a murderer for all we know," the guard mumbles. His eyes flicker to my hands, where a haze rises off my skin.

I keep walking.

For all I know, I could be.

The Emperor continues to keep pace beside me, regardless. "You look as in need of fresh air as Glenroy."

So that's the angry guard's name. I wonder what the man behind us is called. I don't even know the Emperor's name, for that matter.

Of course, considering I don't know _my own_ , that hardly seems surprising.

Uriel, some part of my brain supplies. I think the current Emperor's name is Uriel.

Why can't my own name come to me as easily?

I lick my lips before I speak. "The heat may be necessary, but I enjoy it no more than he does."

"Do you wish for green trees and open skies, woodelf?" The guard behind us asks with a mild curiousity.

I find I do. "Very much so."

"Don't we all," Glenroy snorts, then holds up a hand. "Wait here a moment, I think we're almost to the sewers."

Sewers. Lovely. What an improvement.

"You should have a name," the Emperor says suddenly. "Even if only a temporary one for our time together. I shall call you Erin, for it sounds like the air you so desire."

Erin.

My chest swells at the name. It feels good.

Glenroy calls us to him soon enough with the all clear, and makes for an iron gate on the wall. He moves to open it.

"Wha—it's barred from the otherside! This is a trap!"

The other guard pull his sword and gestures back. "There's another passage here."

"It'll have to do—we need to move away from here, quickly."

I am raking my eyes over the wall, searching for any sign of attacck. "Unless this is the path the enemy wants us to take, and the ambush is ahead."

"We have no other choice, move!"

We all but back down the tunnel, prepped for battle—but we are twarted again.

"It's a dead end, Glenroy."

"Blast! I here them, they're coming!" He turns to me and practically spits as he commands, "Stay here and guard the Emperor. Baurus, with me!"

Baurus and I both agree in unison, and the two guards take off back through the doorway and at the enemy. The clash of blades sounds almost immediately.

Thinking quickly, I back the Emperor against the wall with a quick apology, snuff out the flame on my torch, unwrap the fabric and toss it on the floor across the doorway.

" _Haaaaaaa—_ " I relight the cloth powerfully, raising the flames higher than any natural fire, doing my best to keep a blaising wall going, blocking the entrance. It's hard to keep up, but worth it if it keeps any enemies from getting through. In this small room, we are barricaded and safe.

The room is almost a furnace, however. I am doused in sweat, hardly able to breathe.

"Are you alright, Sire?" I call over my shoulder, keeping my eye on the flames, hands held up in a physical show of my concentration and the connection to my magicka.

"The Prince of Destruction is born anew in blood and fire." His voice I can hardly hear, but it sounds like steel behind me. "I am sorry, my new friend, but I go no further than this."

"What!?" I turn enough to see his face. It is set like stone, blue eyes flashes in the light of my flames.

He steps forward and grabs one of my hands, yanking it back. The wall of fire wavers, and I turn sideways and push my magic through my other hand to restore the flow. Something cold is pressed into the palm of the other.

"The enemy must not have the Amulet of Kings! Take it to Jauffre—he alone knows where to find my last son. Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."

I look quickly between the wall and the Emperor behind me, fear flooding me at his urgent tone. His hands are clasped around my one, a chain dangling from between our fingers.

"This is where my journey ends. For you though, the road is long and dangerous. May your heart be your guide and the gods grant you strength. This burden is now yours alone. You hold our future in your hands. Go, Erin. Take with you my blessings and the hope of the empire."

His eyes lock with mine, and for a moment I feel frozen in his gaze.

Behind him, a hand is raised.

" _NO!_ " I drop the fire wall and throw my arm around, but no more flames emerge, my magicka spent. I try to yank him forward, away from the blow, but he releases my hand when I tug and the momentum carries me back, away from the Emperor, away from the man I need to defend.

The hand comes down, dissappears, the Emperor closes his eyes, jerks, a groan of pain bubbles wetly as steel rips through his neck and the tip comes out his throat and he falls to his knees.

I don't know what I'm screaming, but I'm screaming all the same. I throw myself forward, unarmed, magicka spent, and full body charge the armored assassin. He slams into the wall, the points on his cuirass dig into my leather, bruising, and his knife finds its way into my side with a wrenching jerk. I pull my own from my belt, and in an instant, I've put it through his neck like he put his through the Emperor's.

It's that easy. It's over that quick. I shove the blade in further to make sure, all the way to the hilt, then wrench it free, tossing his body aside.

"Your Majesty—"

I collapse next to him, a magicka potion already unstopped and halfway to my mouth. I down it, drop the bottle and press both hands to his throat.

Heal. Heal. Heal.

My hands glow, the magic leaves me, but his body doesn't change. He doesn't take on the glow, his skin doesn't knit back together, his chest doesn't move with breath.

He's gone. Gone.

His eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted. My shaking hands move away slowly to reveal the gaping, red hole where his adam's apple used to be, blood trickling out beneath him.

It feels like everything inside me is constricting; wrapping, choking, and yet there is nothing to choke. It's empty. But if it's empty, where does this sensation come from?

I couldn't save him. Gods, why couldn't I save him? Why did he accept it? Why didn't he fight? What do I do now?

Gods. Gods.

I turn back to the body of the assassin. He's dead, too. So easy. So quick.

It shouldn't have been that quick. Not for him. Not for Uriel's murderer. Why did I make it so quick? Shouldn't he have suffered? Why doesn't it help that he's dead?

The Emperor's blood is splashed over the front of his robes. I can barely tell, it blends in so well against the red. The shade is just a bit different, though, like waterstains on wood.

The same blood is still wet on my hands.

Blood on my hands. A laugh bubbles to the surface, dark and humorless.

I should have saved him.

He knew I wouldn't. That changes nothing.

Footsteps run into the room. Since I'm not struck down once they stop, I assume it's Glenroy or Baurus.

"Oh, _gods—_ The Emperor! . . . we've failed."

I want to laugh again. My eyes burn.

Reaching down, I pull the hood off the assassin's head. I don't even look at his face; it doesn't matter. I don't care. I strip the hole robe from him. He deserves no dignity. He doesn't even deserve for me to remember his face.

He can vanish into Oblivion. No one will ever know his name.

I burn his face off with a flash of my fingers and not a single glance.

"What are you—"

Ignoring Baurus, I pull off the leather armor that had taken from a pile of anonymous bones. I roll it up and tie it, determined to keep it, to remember the dead man who is nameless in this underground. He, I will give more honor to than this murdering worm.

The robes, stained with the blood of the man who gave me a name, I slide on, and pull the hood over my head.

As I stand, I spot a large, jeweled necklace on the floor a few feet away.

The chain the Emperor passed me. I must have dropped it.

I pick it up. It's heavy, the gold knit together like a thread. A red diamond is set in yet more gold, the edges studded in eight smaller gems and engraved with wavy patterns. The surface of the stone is smooth and glossy.

"The Amulet of Kings!" Baurus approaches slowly, wide eyed at the sight of the jewel.

I have to swallow before I can speak. "'Take it to Jauffre,' the Emperor said. He knows where to find his son."

"His son? But the Emperor has no more sons—they've all been killed."

"Apparently not."

Baurus smiles at that. "That's wonderful news! We still have hope, then. A Septim heir still lives."

I close my fingers around the necklace, then tuck it away. "We must find this Jauffre, and then we'll find the Emperor's son."

"That's easy enough—Jauffre is the grandmaster of the Blades. He lives quietly as a monk at Weynon Priory, outside Chorrol. You should go straight there. The exit to the sewers should be just through beyond the gate—try that passage in the wall there—and then they'll lead you out of the Imperial City."

I glance at him. "You're not coming?"

His smile fading, Baurus lifts a hand and lays it on my shoulder. "His Majesty entrusted this mission to you, and I have seen your loyalty myself. I do not doubt you will take this seriously, and will waste no time in fulfilling his wishes."

His hand lingers on my robe, eyes flitting to the blood flecks on the front, and then slips away as he turns back to the Emperor's body. "I will stay here, and guard him. He shouldn't be left alone. And I'll make sure no one follows you."

I, too, face the fallen monarch. It is hard to look at him, but I do. I make myself.

"Thank you. I'm glad you'll be with him."

"There's rats and goblins in the sewers, but from what I've seen, it's nothing a mage like you can't handle. May Talos guide you, Erin."

I start a bit at the name. It's only twice I've been called it. Uriel Septim gave it to me, and yet only once used it; just before his death.

"And may Stendarr strengthen you, Baurus."

Placing a fist to my chest, I half bow, and Baurus does the same. I step up through the passage and follow it around a corner and past the barred side of the gate he mentioned, and continue through a door. There, in the floor, is the grate leading to the sewers. I push it aside and climb down.

It's wetter, darker, and dirtier than the ruins above, but honestly, the atmostphere is not much changed. I follow slick steps down into the caverns. Rivets run through the floor, diverting murky water into larger channels or through drainage grates. Thankfully, walkways run along the channels, and I'm able to avoid most of the muck. Still, gunk manages to find it's way between my toes and stick to the undersides of my feet as I go; I should have taken the assassin's shoes, as well.

Baurus was right about the rats and goblins—I run into both almost immediately. They come rushing over the stone bridges across the canals, and I feel too drained to even summon up any fire at first. The rat goes down by my blade, I take several hits as I hack at the first goblin, and by the time the second is upon me, I'm blast him full force in the face. He curreens over the edge into the water, and I send my flames down with him. They hit the surface, sizzling out at first, but the temperature quickly rises and the goblin starts shrieking as it steams and bubbles. When he claws his way back up to the walkway, I'm waiting with my knife again.

After that, I don't have much trouble. The path is fairly straightforward, and soon enough I can see light ahead, shining through the bars of my last obstacle before freedom.

Freedom. A strange concept for someone with basic knowledge and yet no memories. Do I want out of this sewer—out of the prison above? Yes. Do I want out there in some strange place to live a life I don't remember, own up to crimes I don't recall commiting, being confronted by people I don't know? What's ahead is . . . daunting.

What I want is the comforting voice of that nice old man, Glenroy's aggrevating insults, Baurus' calm purpose, the captain back and a chance to know her. Even the familiar confines of those stone ruins are better than the _idea_ of freedom with no real place to picture. My life as of now consists of only a few hours, if that, and I have nothing else. And so, I miss it. I am afraid of what lies ahead.

But then again, the life that I don't remember didn't belong to the woodelf named Erin, friend to Uriel Septim. Maybe that person can be just as gone as my memories. I have a new existance to live.

And existance that now centers around finding—and protecting—the son of the man who gave me this new life. To that end, I can let no petty fears give me pause. I cannot let a past that no longer exists try to eat at me.

I am Erin.


	2. Chapter 2 - Deliver the Amulet

So this is the air. Real, pure, true air. What I am named after.

It's wonderful. I take a long, full breath, pulling in as much as I can, standing beneath the shadow of the sewer drain. I haven't had the courage to step out yet. The light is so bright it hurts my eyes, and I have to blink rapidly for several seconds before my sight adjust enough to make out the world now spread before me.

There's water. Vast, deep, and brilliant blue, reflecting the sky dotted with white drifts of cloud above. It laps at the banks, the sound crisp, and a dock stretches out into it, inviting.

White ruins stand tall on an island in the center, ivy growing up the broken structures. Mountains covered in a blanket of green trees stretch out behind it, going on as far as I can see.

So this is the world. This is a real, set place. And somewhere out there is the last Septim, Uriel's blood.

I slip forward, down the embankment, and walk along the dock out into the water. It's a gorgeous sight. Taking a moment, I soak it in. It's so . . . open. Bright. And light.

I feel . . . exposed. I rub my wrist and flex my shoulders, uncomfortable. The manacle chafes, but it feels good. Solid.

Turning around, I can just make out the jutting towers of a city at the top of the hill. The Imperial City, Baurus had said. And, as a stranger to this land, a good a place as any to start. I need supplies, and I need to get directions to the city of Chorrol.

Settling onto the end of the dock, I pull up the bottom of my robe and dip my feet into the water. Swishing them back and forth, I watch the clear liquid around them start to dim. I reach down and rub, scrubbing away the sewer grime and ruin dust. Once I'm satisfied, I stand, give them each a shake in turn to dry a bit, then turn around and step off the bridge back onto the shore. They are immediately coated with dirt again on the bottom, but dirt is far better than sewage, so I don't mind.

I make my way up the hill. It takes some climbing; it's steep. Then I have to circle around the tall stone building I arrive at, searching for a door. When I find it, I also find a bridge, and what looks like the larger city proper. I check the sign by the door closest first—and I find that I'm standing in front of the Imperial City Prison.

As I've just escaped from this place, it's best not to be spotted here. I don't see any guard, but I duck back down under the bridge anyway, slide down the hillside there and make my way up the other side, avoiding any visible line of site entirely before I slip through the door into the city.

There are two guards straight ahead once I'm in. There is no sneaking around them, ducking past, or pretending I didn't just come through the door outside the prison after never having entered it (as far as I know). My hood is still pulled low over my eyes, though. I'm conspicious in a red robe, certainly, but not recognizable as anyone in particular. Banking on that, I simply walk past casually, looking ahead as though in my own thoughts, and don't glance at either of them.

They let me pass without barely a curious look.

No wonder the Emperor and all his sons were assissinated in this city; security is atrocious. Every assassin that came after us was dressed in this robe before they summoned their black armor—someone should have sent a bulletin out by now not to let anyone go wearing one. That would be a problem for me that I hadn't thought about, but I was too aggrevated to care. I wasn't planning to be here long, anyway.

There are two shops straight ahead, and two side roads lined with even more. I continue to the one in front of me, with the sign picturing a book and reading "First Edition" dangling above it.

There is a draw there I don't bother questioning.

The man behind the counter greets me as I come in, and I nod politely before browsing. Nothing of interest pops out at first—at least, not of interest to my purposes. I have to resist paging through random volumes just for fun. When I find a _Manual of Spellcraft_ , I pluck a copy free and flip it open.

 _"The most powerful mages in Tamriel were once beginners. They all had similar early experiences: exposure to magic kindled an interest and/or unlocked some latent ability, followed by years of hard work—"_

Huh. I wonder if I—never mind, it doesn't matter.

 _"These intrepid souls honed their skills, learned new spells, and vigorously trained their minds and bodies to become the formidable figures they were known as during their later lives. The Mages Guild of Tamriel has long been the first stop on a long road to knowledge and power for many individuals."_

This sounds promising.

 _"Providing magical services to the general public, the Guild offers a wide variety of spells for purchase, and is recommended as a first stop for any aspiring spellcaster._. . . _Citizens interested in the further use of magic should consult their local Mages Guild Arch Magister."_

I reshelve the book and ask over my shoulder, "Might I trouble you as to where to find the local Mages Guild?"

"Hm?" The storeowner doesn't sound all too enthused about my lack of actual purchases so far. "You mean the Arcane University? Just go through the doors to the left when you leave here, then go two doors left again and straight through the Arboretum."

University? Even more promising. My lack of funds, however, might be a problem. "Thank you."

A _Guide to the Imperial City_ has a short section dedicated to the University, I find. I smirk as it read it; the author obviously heald no love for Mages or this part of the city.

 _"This place is unspeakably dirty and unkempt, no better than a slum. You will never find the students or wizards outside in the air, for they are squatting in their dark dungeons poring over profane texts and making crabbed scribbles on scrolls."_

The _Guide to Chorrol_ , while initially exciting, provides me with nothing. I recall, too late, that Baurus specified that Weynon Priory was _outside_ the city, and the book is next to useless.

I almost drop the book entitled _Amulet of Kings_ in my haste to open it.

". . . _Akatosh gave to Alessia and her descendants the Amulet of Kings and the Eternal Dragonfires of the Imperial City. . . . So long as the Empire shall maintain its worship of Akatosh and his kin, and so long as Alessia's heirs shall bear the Amulet of Kings, Akatosh and his divine kin maintain a strong barrier between Tamriel and Oblivion, so that mortal man need never again fear the devastating summoned hosts of the Daedra Lords."_

Contemplative, I finish the tome and replace it on the shelf.

I browse _The Ten Commands of the Nine Divines_ because it sounded familiar, and find the names of gods I know. It brings me yet another good feeling to read about them. My faith is important to me, then. This book I wish to buy.

Money have I not, however, and I am painfully aware of it. I feel bad for the shopkeeper, who has watched me with the hope of making some coin.

I turn to him again. "Do you know where I can sell armor?"

He frowns. "Plenty of places around here. Slash 'N Smash, The Best Defense, A Fighting Chance, and probably a few others. Just walk up and down the street and pick a store."

"I'll be back then, I hope. Thank you for your patience."

He seems appeased at that. "You're welcome anytime."

I take his advice, and make my way to one of the squares of commerce in the district. I find a shop called Jensine's "Good as New" Merchandise, and figure that sounds like the right place for me. I step in and up to a woman I assume is Jensine behind a table serving as a counter.

"How can I help you?" She's friendly enough.

I don't like to do this, but I unstrap the leather armor I'd been carrying and pass it over to her. May you go on to defend someone else in battle.

I also hand over every healing potion I'd pilfered while in the dungeons and sewers, saving the magicka potions for myself. If I have magic, I can heal—magicka potions are far more important than healing potions. The lockpicks go, too, since I can spell a lock open apparently; not to mention I don't really plan on breaking in to too many places.

Leaving the store, I've made over three-hundred and fifty gold. I don't know what that will get me at the college, but I hope for some good spells.

I'm not entirely sure of my own skills, now that I think on it. Fire seems to come easy, and healing. What else is up my sleeve? I'm obviously not a novice. Will someone at the University know me?

Deciding I'll deny it if they do, I take off. It doesn't matter what I told the shopkeeper at the bookstore; spells first. I might need them on my mission. Food, as well. Then, if I have anything left, I'll pick up some books.

Following the directions I was given, I back track and then head through an area that is basically a pretty cemetary. I walk through the headstones, admiring the craftmenship here and there, mood sobering. I'm wasting too much time. I have to find the Emperor's son, before he ends up in a grave like his father.

The Arboretum is more statues and trees. I'm through it and crossing another bridge quickly enough. The new area is open, with stairs flanked by violet flames and tall trees leading up to a central tower, the other half of the circular section blocked off by locked iron gates. The tower, however, is open, and I enter.

The circular area houses two benches, several more doors, a counter with various items, and a glowing sigil on the floor, like a dias. It draws my eye immediately, but whatever it is, it's unimportant.

There are two mages doning blue robes chatting together; an elegant Altmer woman with dark hair up in a high bun, and an Imperial man with lose, greying hair and a gentle smile. As I approach, the woman steps away and the man greets me warmly.

"Welcome to the Arcane University. Can I help you with something?"

How to approach this? I will not be telling anyone I have no memories, not even for help figuring out what spells I might know. I mull my options over silently for a moment. The man appears curious, but waits patiently.

"I'm looking into joining the guild," I finally say. "Wondering if it would be worth my time."

"Oh?" His brow cocks, like he's amused at my feigned arrogance.

"Maybe you could . . . evaluate me. See if the guild has anything to offer me."

"I suppose I could. Maybe we should step outside."

* * *

I take a heaving breath in, trying to now show how winded I am. The hood helps, but I doubt I'm fooling my evaluator. He's still smiling, as he has been throughout the exercizes, confident and calm, enjoying the sport in it.

He's been brilliant, deciding a school of magic, then naming spells on the fly for me to use against him, blocking, avoiding, and dispeling the ones I manage, moving on quickly when he calls one I don't know. He grades them as they come, most falling under either Novice or Apprentice levels. He seems impressed by my range of abilities, noticing that Destruction and Alteration seem to be my strong suites. All the information he provides, as well as the proctice is exetremely helpful to me. Spells came easily as he suggested them, the associated casting being wonderfully natural once the thought is planted in my mind. I perform several spells I hadn't known I'd known, or had even occur to me.

I end up going through my own restore magicka potions, but it seems worth it considering the knowledge I've aquired. I feel much more comfortable with myself and my magic once he claps his hands together, slipping out of his defensive stance smoothly.

"I think we're all done here."

I nod, rolling my shoulders as I come out of my solid attack pose to stand more at ease.

He approaches casually. "You certainly have a solid foundation to build on. Attacking is definately your strong suite. Most of your other spells are assistive in comparison. All that's left is—do you have skill in Alchemy?"

"Not especially." I'm getting used to my brain supplying answers that I didn't know. "Basic plant identification and uses, healing potions mostly."

He nods. "That fits with your skill sets so far. You're a fighter, that's for certain. Now the only real question is: are you also a scholar? If so, the Mages Guild would love to have you."

"And I'd love to be a part of it."

He looks pleased. I think he genuinely likes me. It's an odd feeling, after the Emperor. "Then you'll need to get recommendations from all the local guild halls in Cyrodiil. Just go to each of the cities and talk to the head mage in charge, they'll tell you what to do. Once you've gained all their favors, come back here for full initiation."

"Do you have any spells you'd recommend I aquire before getting on the road? Or venturing into a den of vampires?"

Raising his eyebrows, he peers at me for a moment before laughing. "Planning on putting those warrior skills of yours to use?"

"Yes, sir."

"All I sell are above your skill level at the moment, but I might recommend checking the Mystic Emporium and Edgar's Discount Spells here in town, as well as The Gilded Carafe for potions. Besides restore magicka potions, you seem like you can handle yourself; you have a good head for spellwork, though I admit I haven't seen you in a true fight."

"Thank you for all your help."

"It's been my pleasure." He holds out his hand and, after a moment, I take it and shake solidly. "I'm Raminus Polus, by the way. Master-Wizard."

"Erin."

"I look forward to seeing you here again, Erin."

"Likewise."

* * *

I take Raminus' advice and hit the Mystic Emporium and Edgar's Discount Spells. I'm surprised and pleased at the prices I find in both places, and I purchase quite a few in the Apprentice range to suppliment my spellset. Then I head to The Gilded Carafe and ended up arguing with the shopkeeper for longer than I would have liked over the prices. I walked away with far fewer—and weaker—potions of sorcery than I would have liked, and a light coinpurse indeed.

Not so light that I didn't stop in at the First Edition and spend the last of it on books, however. A quick stop off at one of the weapons shops to pawn my dagger gives me even more spending money (not enough for a good quality potion, though, curse that vendor), which I use on food at the nearest inn, then I pick up copies of most everything I had looked at or found helpful before, plus a few others just for my personal reading, since they were so cheap. All four volumes of _A Brief History of the Empire_ , a thick tome of adventure and archealogy entitled _The Ruins of Kemel-Ze_ , and a few shorter works on the gods.

Broke but pleased, I finally set out for the city gates. I have to pass through two more sections of the city—a garden area and a more residential section with a statue of a dragon in it—before I get there. I have to cross yet another bridge, this one far larger than the other two I previous encountered, before I pass a small inn and actually seem to find myself on the road. A sign points the way to several cities in several directions, and I follow the one pointing to Chorrol to my right.

I admire the Imperial City as I skirt around it in my walk. It's settled in the center of an island, apparently, explaining the largest of the bridges that stretches out of the water (but not the other two, which only went over more land; maybe they have a flood season?). I have a very barebones map, curtesy of the bookstore shopkeep, showing how the main road wraps all the way around the island in a big cirle, the roads to all the other cities branching off from it in all directions.

The city makes a beautiful centerpiece, I must admit. Tall and proud, the spire stands in the middle, stretching high up into the blue sky and towering above the rest of the city, even with it's high walls that dwarf the landscape around it. It is a fortress, intimidating and yet elegant, solid and glowing almost white in the sunlight.

The road to Chorrol breaks off fairly quickly, and I leave the great, towering city behind me as I turn to the west and start trecking uphill. I pass a soldier on patrol rather quickly. I move aside to avoid him, but he turns his horse to intercept me, looking worried.

"Ma'am, I would recommend turning back if I were you. Seek shelter in the Imperial City."

"I just came from there. I'm traveling to Chorrol."

He fidgets in his saddle, then sighs. "Then stick to the roads and go quickly. It's not safe in the wilderness."

I turn more towards him. "How so?"

He looks far from eager to tell me. "There have been reports . . . sightings . . . of daedra."

My eyes narrow. "I see. Thank you for the warning, sir. I will be swift."

Nodding, he looks a least a bit relieved by my assurance. "Be safe then."

"You as well."

His brow furrows, a bit startled at being told to stay safe, apparently. I suppose most don't worry about armed guards. But he nods.

"Thank you."

I continue up the hill. He steers his horse away and I listen to the clop of hooves as he and I grow farther apart. Soon enough, I'm alone again with the sounds of the wind in the trees and the occasional nearby animal. It's calm, soothing, and I find I enjoy my steady pace and lack of event in my life. I suppose this is probably my first real moment of 'down time,' as my life has begun with quite the adventure, if you could call it that. Everything I have done until now has been for the mission. There is nothing to do now except walk, and my thoughts are my own.

I don't really like that part. Where will my thoughts, with so little to preoccupy them, go at a time like this? I have resolved not to think on the past of the me that no longer exists, but its hard not to drift in that direction. I have nothing else except that mystery and the death of my first friend.

I wonder if he and Baurus are still in the underground. I would hope Baurus would have been able to get his body out of there, that the Emperor might recieve a proper buriel and be mourned by his people. The captain and Glenroy deserve heroes' funerals, as well.

"Turn over your gold, or forfit your life!"

". . . what?" Shaking out of my revelry, I stop and look up. In front of me is a khajit man clad it fur armor, trying to stare me down menacingly.

After several attacks on my life by trained assassins, this bandit hardly seems a threat. His appearance is almost comical.

"Hand over your gold, elf," he repeats with a growl.

"I have no gold." It's true enough.

"Oh, anything of value will do." He replies amiably, as though this were a simple discussion of trade.

"Define 'of value.'"

His patience wears thin quickly. "Hand over your belongings before I gut you, mage."

"If you can tell I'm a mage just by looking, why would you challenge me?"

"What, you think you are better than Khajit just because you have fancy spells?" He pulls a large warhammer. "I will crush you!"

I clench my fists, apprehension growing. "Walk away, friend."

"That is what you should have done while you had the chance!" He heaves the hammer in my direction.

I dodge to the left, but he's faster than he looks, swinging that warhammer as he moves after me. He keeps me on my toes, moving this way and that, and I am concerned over my lack of ability to respond. I can feel the heat in my shoulders, fire building beneath my skin, ready to defend me—

And I see Uriel before me, falling, dark metal masks on anonymous faces, the stink of burning flesh, the fire is so hot, burning, screaming, red robes, black weapons, death and bowels and sick and pain and failure—

" _NO!_ "

Heart racing, chest heaving, I call a blade to my aid, iron from another plane of existance being pulled into this world, into my hand, and I let the hammer hit me, whirl me around and down, and I dip under the next swing and come up—

I jam the blade into his neck. He chokes on the blood that gurgles forth, spits as he tries to breathe, coughs, hammer dropping, claws scratching at me, and then his hands fall, and he goes limp and heavy and just falls away, sliding right off my dagger and to the ground. He even rolls a bit, before his body settles, limp, in the dirt.

I'm gasping. My back and shoulder aches where the hammer hit me. I'm staring at him. I can't look away.

My whole body convulses. I heave. Heave again. I stumble back, brace myself against a rock, and wait. I continue to tremble, my stomach churns, my throat constricts, and I almost wish the sick would come; but it doesn't. After a few minutes, things settle down, and all I'm aware of his my wet face and the waning cool of the day.

Calling fire had been easy enough when Raminus had asked. But he had wanted little more than a demonstration, and I had felt no danger, no unease or urgency. This . . . this had been different. This I don't like.

Fire was pain and death and had failed to protect the Emperor. What good would it serve his son? I can't trust it. I can't trust myself with it.

Still practically doubled over, I turn slightly to glance back at the body in the road.

A bandit. Just a simple bandit. He would have killed me. I had to fight back.

But he was no assassin. It just doesn't feel the same. I wish he had walked away. I wish I hadn't had to do that. I wish I wasn't so quick to kill him.

I don't like killing people, I realize. Something new to know about myself.

Further up the road, I pass another patrolman. I give him a rather wide berth, and don't acknowledge him when he hails me.

Daedra, the other had warned me. Inhuman beings, viscious creatures that would kill you in a heartbeat that it most likely won't twinge your conscience one bit to kill. Those, they warned me about.

Not people. Not people just like me, who grew up and had parents and might have siblings or families, who are _living_ , no matter how you might disagree with those choices. A hold up for money on the side of a road. People.

Did he deserve to die? He would have killed me. He's probably killed others. Did I have the right to pass that judgement? It's too late now, and there's no room for regret. I am alive; I must _stay_ alive. Uriel's son is out there, and I must find him. I have a purpose.

The round curves around the side of a steep hill, a wooden fence rimming the edge to keep travelors safe. I run my fingers along it, looking out the way I've come. The view is, in a word, spectacular. It's an almost clear, treeless picture of the Imperial City below, bathed in the purples, pinks, and blues of a pastel sunset, all reflected in the surrounding water. A constellation is beginning to show through the lights and clouds. I sigh, watching the sight do nothing but be breathtaking, and then when a breeze reminds me that night is coming and with it, the cold, I turn back around to trudge on up the hill. Movement below catches my eye.

The patrolman has hopped off his horse, and is checking the body in the road.

I leave.

The path eventaully runs straight through an old ruin, and two wolves rush out of the woodwork to ravage me. This, somehow, isn't frightening at all. In fact, I reach my arm out and, when one of the wolves chomps down on it, I use my other hand to touch it. With the contact of skin and fur comes the most natural feeling of communication, comradourie, family; stunningly, the wolf seems to agree. It releases me and turns on its skin.

I watch the fight with a morbid fascination. My new friend takes down his former companion, as the other wolf hadn't expected the attack, and then pats back over to me for another petting. He continues to follow me as I walk beneath the ruins and out the other side—only to be ambushed _again_.

"Your money—"

He's barely started his spiel when the wolf comes charging past me and sinks its teeth into him.

"Arg! Get off, you mutt—"

After a few seconds of struggling, he flings the wolf off. The beast lands rather easily and returns for round two, nipping at his heels while he tries to keep his eyes on both of us. I've taken to circling him, and I assume he finds it menacing, because he refuses to let me out of his sight, even to fend off the wolf attack.

Slinging a mace around, he lands a hit on the wild dog. It shrieks in pain, whimpering, and limps out of range of the weapon. Feeling rather protective of my new pet, summon my dagger and step forward.

I try not to think. It's difficult. I try to suppress it, to beat down on the heat I feel trying to escape. I still see flashes, as I dodge and slash and the bandit sneers and growls and taunts, flashes of other faces, other places, smell the stink of burning corpes . . .

The knife slips in easily, between where the front and back padding of the cuirass meet above his hip. A little twist, a sharp jerk, dragging it up, cuts up his insides, has blood gushing out over my hands. I sidestep it, not wishing to mix it with the blood of the Emperor on my robes.

He falls to his knees, clutching at the wound.

"Please—"

I won't hear him beg; he made his choice.

I slice his throat, let him fall face first onto the rocky stone path, and then go to the whining wolf a few feet away, determined not to think about it, don't think about it—

The wolf snarls and snaps at me as I approach. Ah. The spell's worn off.

Don't think.

I let it bite me again, and while it gnaws on me, trying to do damage, I thrust the knife into it's neck. Just like the assassin. Just like the first bandit.

There's another wolf at the bottom of the hill. I feel tired. So tired.

I cast a few healing spells as I walk away, leaving it bleeding in the road like the other, lifeless eyes staring back at any new travelors that might come this way.

So tired. I pull out an apple and bite into it, feeding myself while I walk. It's probably the best thing I've ever tasted, almost fresh, crisp and juicy. I toss the core to the roadside when I'm done, and, still hungry, start peeling a potato absentmindely.

Don't think.

Eventually, a small farm comes up on my right. I debate on knocking. The last light of day has vanished, the sky now growing dark with punctures of stars. There seems to be another building at the top of the hill, though, so I continue on.

Come to find, it's a chapel. There's also another small farm building and a larger stone structure with a nameplate that, thankfully, designates it my destination: Weynon Priory.

Three hours on the road, two dead bandits, three dead wolves, and I'm finally here.

Seeing no lights in the chapel and, figuring it's late, I knock on the middle building's door. A monk answers. He's balding, with long brown robes, and a simple look about him.

"Good evening, sir. Can I help you with something?"

"I need to speak with brother Jauffre."

His brow furrows. "He's probably sleeping . . . but to come so late, it must be important. Please, come in. You may head upstairs and wake him."

I bow in thanks as he ushers me inside. There's a small sitting area by a fireplace to the side, but directly in front in a staircase that branches left and right.

"The sleeping area is to the left." The monk informs me. "Though, brother Jauffre does keep late nights. You might try his study, on the right."

So search the whole second floor on both sides, because you obviously aren't very helpful? I nod and try to right first, as he said.

It's in use; a man I assume is Jauffre is seated behind a desk near the window at the front of the building, pouring over a book. He's dressed much the same as the other monk, grey hair on each side of his head but none on top, aged but not decrepid.

"Brother Jauffre?"

He looks up, then sets his book aside slowly, eyeing me with a careful gaze that doesn't match his smile.

"I am Jauffre. What can I help you with?"

I don't know what to say. Where to begin, how to explain. So I don't.

Pulling the Amulet of Kings from my bag, I drop it onto the desk in front of Jauffre.

He jumps out of his seat. "By the Nine! This is the Amulet of Kings! No one but the Emperor is permitted to handle it—who are you? How did you get this?"

"' _The Prince of Destruction is born anew in blood and fire. Find my son, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion.'_ " I can still see him, standing in the flickering light of my flames, all in a haze, eyes serious and set. "Those were the last words of Emperor Uriel Septim. He gave me this Amulet and tasked me to take it to you, and protect his son."

Jauffre continues to peer at me over the table, one hand on the Amulet as though to protect it from me. "And who are you that you would have been with the Emperor at his death? That he would trust you with such a task?"

Who, indeed? "I am no one. The Emperor said he saw me in a dream, and he trusted me, so I followed at his side till the end."

"In a dream?" Jauffre lets his hand slip away from the Amulet at this, standing straighter. "Emperor Uriel had many dreams in his life, many of them prophetic. So he knew ahead of time that he could depend on you, at least with this."

But, apparently, not with saving his life.

"What did he mean, then? About the ' _Prince of Destruction_ ' and ' _close shut the jaws of Oblivion_ '? Do you know?"

"The Prince of Destruction is most certainly Mehrunes Dagon, the Deadric Prince of the same. Uriel seemed to perceive some threat from Oblivion, Mehrunes' Plane of existance. But what threat, I do not know."

"I was warned of rising daedra sightings in the wilderness on my journey here."

"This does not bode well at all. There is a magical barrier between our world and the other planes. Oblivion should not be able to threaten us as long as those barriers are in place. But we do not know how they work, or how they could be torn down. This threat is not one we have the first clue how to face." Jauffre takes his seat again, picking up the Amulet slowly; he eyes it, turning it in his hand, and begins speaking again. "The Amulet of Kings is ancient, a gift to Saint Alessia herself from the gods. When an Emperor is crowned, he uses the Amulet to light the Dragonfires at the Temple of the One in the Imperial City, though the particulars of the ritual are known only to the Emperors, or what purpose the Dragonfires serve. With the Emperor dead and no new heir crowned, the Dragonfires in the Temple will be dark for the first time in centuries . . . It may be that the Dragonfires protected us from a threat that only the Emperor was aware of."

Sighing, he sets the Amulet back down.

"I know nothing of such things," I say simply. "I only wish to find the Emperor's son, as he bade me with his dying words."

"That shouldn't be hard. Uriel had me keep an eye on the boy growing up, after I was tasked with taking him away and delivering him somewhere safe. Uriel never actually told me he was his son, but I knew. He asked about him from time to time. His name is Martin. Last I heard, he served as a priest of Akatosh in the temple at Kvatch."

"Then I go to Kvatch."

Jauffre nods. "That seems wise. If the enemy finds out of his existance, he'll be in great danger, so go quickly. Bring him back here. It appears he is heir to the throne, and he doesn't even know he is Uriel's son. There will be much to explain. Go, and take whatever you need. We don't have much here, but you're welcome to my things."

Getting up, Jauffre heads over to a chest by the wall and unlocks it, popping it open. "If you need anything else, you can ask Brother Piner or Prior Maborel."

The chest has a few weapons, two sets of armor, and an assortment of potions. I nab the healing and sorcery bottles, but that's about all I want out of it.

Jauffre seems put off by what little I've claimed. "Are you certain you don't wish to take some armor?"

I wave his concerns away.

Frowning, he nods none-the-less. "Do you need any rest before you go? It is late."

"Do I have time to waste on sleep? I wasted enough gathering supplies in the Imperial City."

"You will be useless as a bodyguard if you are not properly rested. Please, use one of the beds here. We'll have food prepared for you in the morning for when you go."

Part of me doesn't want to stay. Uriel's son—this Martin—is so close, it feels like. My mission, my purpose, is right in front of me.

"How far is Kvatch?"

"Eight and a half, maybe nine hours travel by the road."

I press my eyes shut, cringing. "Alright then, I must accept your hospitality."

"A wise choice. We will have things ready on the morrow. Please, right this way."

* * *

 _"Are the walls closing in, Bosmer? Can you even breathe?"_

 _I can't. I can't breathe. Walls, walls on all sides. No trees. No trees. Fire. Flickering. Flames, flames._

 _"You are the one from my dreams."_

 _Where am I? So hot. Pain. Pain._

 _"If you are here, then . . . this is the day. Gods give me strength."_

 _Harbinger of death. Omen. Sign. My fault. My fault._

 _"It is the gods who have put them on this path with us, and they must follow it to the end."_

 _The end. To what end? Who's end? All ends?_

 _"What is your name?"_

 _My name . . . my name . . . Gods, what is my name?_

 _I feel a pulsing blaze bubble beneath my skin, coursing through the veins in my arm, riding up my flesh until it bursts, burning, from my palm._

 _I can hear screaming._

 _A few steps has me standing at the top of those few steps, the prostrate, hooded form laying sprawled at the bottom. The face stairs straight up in silent agony, skin almost gone, burst bubbles of blood and puss marring what was once a woman's face._

 _Death. I have dealt death._

 _The stink of seared flesh, released bowels, and blood polutes the air._

 _Air. I need air._

 _I'm being eaten. Eaten alive. I_ should _be eaten alive. I should feel pain._

 _My fault. Mine._

 _"In your face, I behold the sun's companion. The dawn of Akatosh's bright glory may banish the coming darkness."_

 _Harbinger. Not hope. I bring the end. The end. All ends._

 _"They could be a murderer for all we know."_

 _I could be. I am._

 _"I shall call you Erin, for it sounds like the air you so desire."_

 _Air. Can't breathe._

 _"The Prince of Destruction is born anew in blood and fire."_

 _Blood. Fire. So much fire. Heat, burning, screaming. They're screaming. I'm screaming. It burns._

 _"Find my last son. Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."_

 _"Go, Erin."_

 _Erin._

 _Erin._

 _Air._

 _Behind him, a hand is raised._

 _He stands there, staring, as the blade bursts forth from his neck, wet with his blood, flames flickering on the steel. Blood and fire._

* * *

Gasping, I press my face into the pillow. It's stiffling, even harder to breathe, but I don't want to make any sound. When my breathing evens out, I stay there, listening to the nothing.

It's almost just as suffocating.

There's no more sleep tonight.

* * *

Brother Piner, Prior Maborel, and Jauffre are all up the next morning, before the sun even rises. They pack me a bag of food, have a horse saddled and waiting, and say a prayer in the chapel before I go. I sit with them, silent, soaking up the words as they ring out, rise up to the gods.

They don't see me off, but go back to their daily duties as I climb up onto the horse and start a slow trot off into the morning fog.

Despite what the watchman said, I veer off the road as soon as I'm out of sight of the Priory; I'd rather face daedra than more bandits.

The wilderness doesn't offer much in way of a path. I steer around rocks and trees, up and down hills, past ruins and fallen trunks all as they come, keeping the rising sun to my left and to the rear as I go. According to the map, Kvatch is south-west, with a bit more west along the way. If I undershoot it, I'll hit the road, which is fine. Overshooting it will land me on the coast and I'll have to take the road anything, so I aim to undershoot.

The plan goes rather smoothly. The ride is uneventful. Besides having to outrun a few wolves and adjust my course around ruins and too-steep hills, I rarely even have to steer. Riding feels good. I honestly hadn't even thought about if I _could_ ride before I'd hopped on the horse. It's natural, leaning against the movements, keeping my seat, bobbing with the rythm of the gallop in those stretches of openness. The only unenjoyable part is my once again unoccupied thoughts.

I need to be doing something. I hate _thinking_. I have nothing to think about except . . .

Things I don't want to think about.

I won't.

* * *

Three hours if far better than ten, and three hours is about how long it takes before I find myself back on the road, headed for the base of the rocky hill that Kvatch is built on. The city looks like a castle high above, and the winding road up to the entrance snakes through rough terrain at what I expect will be an agonizingly slow pace.

That expectation is interrupting as an Altmer comes running towards me down the road with a look of abject terror on his face. He's tripping over himself, he's in such a panic.

When he sees me, he cries out, "What are you doing!? You're going the wrong way! Run, run while you can! The daedra—they're coming!"

He makes as if to continue running past me—I reach out and snag him by the shirt collar, tugging him back.

"What daedra? Explain."

"Kvatch is overrun! A glowing portal opened outside the walls last night—gates to Oblivion itself! Daedra swarmed us, blasting fire, killing everyone! The guards are holding the road, but it's only a matter of time before they are overwhelmed!"

He struggles against my hold, trying to move away, sweat running down his face and neck. I grip him tighter.

"What of the priest, Martin? Did anyone else get out alive?"

"The priest? I don't know. The survivors have gathered in a camp on the road, hoping the guards will retake the city, but there is no hope! Run while you can! Release me, I must get out of here before they get me!"

Disgusted, I fling him away. He doesn't waste a second, regaining his feet and taking off.

"Heya!" I spurr my horse forward, the camp he mentioned just in sight. A group is gathered, and I can overhear there words of woe and hopelessness as I ride up. I pull next to them, not slowing quick enough and having to yank the reigns.

"Is Martin here? Have any of you seen the priest?"

They glance at each other, and a woman shakes her head. "I don't think he made it out of the city, but Savlian Matius might know more. He leads the guard that is holding the road up ahead."

I give the horse a kick, whip the reigns, and lean forward as we pick up spead, rounding corner after corner as we climb the hill.

No no no this can't be happening, I can't be too late—

The sky is growing abnormally dark as we press on. Thunder shakes the air, and a red tint paints the world around me. The atmosphere is heavy, hot.

Fire.

Unfamiliar stars light the way through crimson clouds and a black sky as I ride my way into a group of soldiers settled behind a wooden barricade, gazing up in anger and fear at the towering terror before them—the Oblivion gate.

It looks like two giant horns have pierced through the earth and up, up! Flames dancing between them, an even brighter burning center suspended like a giant eye. The landscape surrounding it is dead, grey and black, charred to nothing, the trees barren and burned like kindling, pieces of the great wall around the city crumbled and scattered. And scamps are pouring from the gate, shooting balls of fire from their claws, shrieking as they charge us.

The guards rush to meet them, swords drawn and battle cries ringing in the air.

Jumping off the Prior's horse, I join them.

Dagger summoned, the whole battle is basically a hack-and-slash. There's an archer behind us, picking them off, as the rest of us cut our way through the creatures. They're tougher than they look, with thick hides, sharp teech and claws, and a lot of fire power. The heat builds as we fight closer to the gate. I can feel it inside me as well, can see the flashes again.

Masks.

Maces.

Knives.

Fire.

Swords.

Uriel.

The last scamp falls, and one of the soldiers—the leader, it would seem—trudges over to me.

"What do you think you're doing? Get back down the hill with the other villagers, civillian—this is too dangerous!"

I twirl my knife, and it bursts into puffs of sparkling yellow smoke. "I am not one of your villagers, and I am not your responsibility. I can handle myself. Now tell me, what of the priest, Martin? Does he live? Do you know?"

His brow furrows as he glowers at me. "The priest? Last I saw, he was leading a group of survivors to the chapel of Akatosh. If he's lucky, they're all trapped inside—and safe. But with this gate here, we have no way back inside to help get them out. And we're barely holding our own out here as it is, trying to keep them from ovverruning the encampment, let alone mounting a rescue."

"Then tell me what to do."

"What?" His eyes shoot open. "Are you serious?"

"Yes." I snap. "Whatever it takes."

He seems to see my resolve, and becomes serious. "Alright then. We know the gates can be closed—there were more here, originally, during the initial attack. I sent men into the gate to find out if they could close this one, but . . . none have come back."

We both turn to the gate. It stands, foreboding, forbidding, in our path.

"Go after them." Savlian commands. "See if they're alive, and assist them if you can. If not . . . well, if we can't close the gate, we're doomed. So this could mean your death, but . . . just, find a way. Close the gate."

I swallow, fear growing in my chest, biting at me, gnawing. I don't want to go in there; no one would. I can hear the screams of my nightmares in my ears.

"Consider it done."

I march toward the gate, up to the fire, and straight through the pillers and the flames. They whip around me, hot but harmless, and a ringing sound envelops me, the ground falls out from beneath my feet, and I'm being stretched, squished, pulled, torn, and falling, falling—

I stumble out the other side. Into Oblivion.


	3. Chapter 3 - Breaking the Siege of Kvatch

As barren as the blackened lands around Kvatch, the plane of Oblivion that spreads out before me is dark, desolate, and burning. Lava flows beneath a bridge straight ahead, a molten ooze of heat that bakes the air. The ground crunches beneath my steps, brittle and cracking, a soft glow that promises more magma far beneath shining through the apprently thin layer of crust. Even what little grass growing is black and seems to blow away in the hot breeze, dust.

Stone and rocks and ruin are all around, making the landscape impossible to take in farther than feet in front of my face. It's a maze, twisting and littered with threats beneath a churning red sky—just like above Kvatch. Foreign stars, crimson lightening, a constant haze of heat. What look like black talons tipped in blood cut through the ground in places, along with thick vines and glowing stones marked with Daedric scripts.

The Deadlands.

Mehrunes Dagon's realm.

The Prince of Destruction.

 _"Born anew in blood and fire."_

I don't question the knowledge, or the echo of Uriel's words. I don't have time.

A group of scamps are dead ahead, circling a lone guard as he bats at them wildly with his sword, skill and thought lost, desperation in his angry cries.

I jump over a burnt corpse as I rush forward to his aid. Raising my hand, I call on a spell I've only tested once, but was impressed by. A wave of nausea rolls through me, bile rising up my throat, and a small portal swirls into existance in the air, purple clouds around a black hole. A body drops out, landing unevenly on it's half-rotten feet, chunks of flesh missing from it's grey skin. With a wet, hissing groan, it lumbers forward with me, on the attack.

The guard rears back as my zombie tackles one of the scamps, and I come against another with a wave of sizzling red bubbles that eat away at it. The spell does little, however, and I fall back, annoyed. I can't summon my dagger without dispelling the zombie. I shouldn't have sold my physical one.

The heat is all around me, and it calls to the flames inside me. I hate it.

I also hate watching. Circling. Doing nothing.

The zombie fulfills its purpose, and soon enough the scamps are dead and the guard is approaching me, a look of relief on all his features.

"Thank the Nine! I never thought I'd see another friendly face . . . "

"Savlian Matius sent me. Are there any others?"

The man's face twists in hope and despair. "I had thought I was all that was left. I can't believe the Captain is still alive. The others . . . we were ambushed, swarmed, when we arrived. I escaped, but the others . . . they were picked off, some taken up to the tower. Menien was still alive. I wanted to save him, but . . . "

It's obvious he stands no chance. I don't even know if _I_ stand a chance. But he doesn't need to know that.

"I'm here to close the gate. I'll rescue your friend if I can, but the priority is what it is. Go back and inform the Captain."

"Alright. Good luck to you."

We take off in seperate directions. The bridge, I find, is blocked off by large gates, and I have to turn back and take a side path. It circles around, leading to the tower he'd mentioned. It's one of many, interconnected by bridges high in the sky. My road is littered with more scamps, which I let my zombie dispatch more often than not. He's usefull, and lets me pay closer attention to the lay of the land as I travel rather than worrying about being attacked.

I run across a few more bodies as I go, burnt beyond recognition.

One of them has a dagger on it. Small, cheap, and iron, but in better condition than my rusted one had been. I'm thankful for it.

When the next group of scamps attacks, I fight with my zombie pet to take them down, and I'm pleased to feel useful again, rather than standing off to the side like when the guard was fighting.

The last wave blocks the door to the tower, crowding around the small staircase to the entrance, but they are easy enough to do away with. I push my way in.

Gods. This place.

A pit of lava bubbles in the center of the room, surrounded by spikes, flames shooting up in an impossible pillar, rising up to what looks like the very peak of the tower. Everything is made from that dark grey stone that littered outside, spikes tipped in red everywhere, intricate daedric carvings on the walls. And more scamps. I'm getting so sick of scamps.

Small fountains flank the entrance, though, a glowing stream of blue spitting up from the middle, and it calls to me. I drink one without really thinking about it, once again trusting the knowledge that comes with blank memories, and feel my magick expand inside of me, fill me, replenished. Oh, this I like.

The zombie is resummoned, my dagger is drawn, and we attack. Soon enough, we are choosing a door at random and venturing further in.

A tiny corridor leads up, and to another door. I wait with little patience as it pries apart, opening—and I see my foes.

Creatures, like people, one red faced and one blue, with dark hair and horns both, one in armor and one in robes. Their guttural voices roar as one begins a summon and the other charges me with a mace. I surprise him by rushing forward right back, dodging to the side, and then bringing back my zombie for the battle. I discover quickly he deals far more damage than I; I let him focus on the armored one as I take the mage.

It is not an easy fight.

I take hit after hit from the summoned scamp as I continue to ignore it in favor of slashing at its master, and the mage makes me chase him, dodging around the room to tire me. My dagger is doing next to nothing against him, and I am in all sorts of pain. The scamps cuts are large and close together, and I can feel flaps of skin hanging off, tugging as I move around, were his scratches have intersected. My robes are torn up and damp with blood and sweat, and all I can feel is heat and hurt.

Until the mace clocks me in the skull. I hit the ground and roll as the world blacks out for several seconds, the sounds of my enemies closing in making my heart race.

The other Dremora hit me, he's no longer occupied, my zombie must be gone—

I resummon the undead servant and scamper away on my hands and knees, relying on my ears until my vision, fuzzy, starts to return. I take shelter behind another of those strange fountains, this one spouting red. Pulling myself up and over the edge, I down the liquid.

It tastes like blood, coppery and thick. My stomach turns, and I can feel a buzzing shock race through my veins, running through every inch of me.

I blink, and I'm fine. My heart is still racing, blood pumping, but the wounds are gone and the pain has stopped and I don't even bother trying to fight the fire that bursts to the surface with the euphoric relief that envelops me. Just as my zombie delivers a killing blow to the mage, I launch myself in a flaming fury at the armored Dremora.

I'm a huffing mess when it finally falls, breathing heavy and doused in sweat. I stand there, trying to steady myself, staring at the body on the floor, and I can see the flashes again. Hear the voices, the yelling, the clash of swords. It's so hot.

My zombie flickers out of existance. Automatically, I lean down, remove the armor from the Dremora, pull my dagger out, and carefully slice open his chest. Why? I don't know why. But the blue skin parts, and I slip my fingers in, my whole hand, wringly it around in the slick, thick mass of flesh and blood and organs and bone, until I wrap around my prize. I yank my hand back out, along with it's heart. I stare at it, puzzled, before cutting it free and moving over to the other body.

Why am I doing this? Why do I need these? I don't know. Gods, I'm going to be sick.

Don't think. Don't think. Stop thinking.

It's so hot.

The next room leads up, wrapping around the pillar of fire from earlier. It just leads to another door, which leads up again, and there are more scamps. I ignore them, letting the zombie smack at them, while I check the doors. Two are locked. I take the open one. It leads outside—onto one of the long bridges in the sky, connecting the towers.

I wonder if heights are something that bothers me. I decide not to find out. Staring straight ahead at the next door, I walk carefully and purposefully across. It's hard, at times. I stop for almost every gust of wind, as they are like hands trying to shove me over the edge. My stomach is twisting again.

I'm relieved for all of two seconds when I step through the door—then a voice cries out: "Help, up here! In the cage!"

My head shoots up. There is indeed a cage dangling from the ceiling above, a stripped man trapped inside. Menien. The walkway circles the edge of the tower, leaving the center open for a deadly fall. I hug the walls as I rush to make my way up. A Dremora meets me at the top.

Oddly enough, he begins to speak—spouting something about "I shouldn't be here" and "my life is forfeit" or something, but instead of listening, I peer behind him and concentrate on summoning. With little noise, the zombie appears, glances around blankly for a moment, turns, and then as the Dremora raises his mace to me, the Zombie begins flailing on him from behind.

My creature is dim witted, certainly, but I am growing found of him.

The Dremora falls much more easily than the other two had under our combined assault. Then I rush to the cage.

"No, no!" The man yells. "Behind you, the body—the key! The Dremora has the key, get it!"

Nodding, I whirl back around and do as told. A short search, and a key is recovered, and I turn back to him, looking for a lock.

"No, that key isn't for my cage. It's for the tower. You must get to the very top! There's something there called a Sigil Stone—it's what's keeping the gate open. Remove it, and the gate will close!"

"What about you? How do I open this?"

"Forget about me, just hurry and get the stone!" He barks this, angry.

I'm growing angry in return, apprehensive. "No! I told your friend I'd get you out, I'm not leaving you here."

"You can't open this, there isn't a lock! The Dremora controlled it, and he's dead now! Just go!"

Ignoring him, I pull out my blade and slash at it. Immitating me, my zombie starts to smack at the bars, too. I try magic next, blasting sections away from the man with my fire, using my lock opening spell, trying everything.

I rear back in frustration.

"The bars don't meet at the top, can you climb over?"

The bars crissocross all over, easy footholds. But Menien glares at me, unmoving.

" _Go!_ "

" _No!_ "

"Alright, I'll climb out! But you are wasting time! You have to close the gate!"

"Fine, I'll go. But when you get out, just go across the bridge, climb down the tower, and make your way around the main bridge back to the gate, alright? I've killed most of the creatures on the path, so just follow the bodies."

He finally nods, and grasps onto the bars, lifting his first leg up. "Alright, now go!"

I skip back a few steps, watching him as I go. Certain he's climbing, I head down the ramp back to the door. Glancing back up, I watch as he puts a leg over the top bar, beginning his way down. He catches sight of me through the glass floor.

"Go!"

I go.

Keeping my center of gravity low, I make my way across the bridge again, back into the main tower. Unlocking a door, I find another corridoor, more ramps, more scamps, and another door.

And then that fiery pillar, flanked by yet more ramps, wrapping around, leading up. A Dremora ambushes me on my way, and I sidestep him and don't even bother to fight. Summoning the zombie, I continue away. At the top, I find nothing; a dead end—at first glance.

There's a circular elavation in the floor. I step on—

And am transported.

The pillar. More ramps. More Dremora.

I've stopped bothering to fight. Time ways heavy on my heart, urged on by the words of the trapped soldier. I race past, using my handy teleporting zombie whenever possible, and just keep on through door and up ramp, one after the other.

Until I reach the top.

The floor in this room looks like it's made of thin layers of meat, stretched out between metal bars. The pillar is shooting through a hole in the middle, and claws potrude from the walls climbing up, up, like twisted staircases on either side. The sky rumbles overhead, red storm raging.

I restore my magic at one of the handy fountains in the room, and then climb.

On the next level, I'm forced to walk on the fleshy floors as I keep moving up, using my zombie to deflect attention from the Dremora and scamps. The muscles under my feet are slick and rubbery despite the heat of this place, and I bounce with every step. My stomach jumps with me.

Finally, at the top, I turn to face the tip of the fiery pillar—and see the black stone floating in the fire, suspended by it, like a black hole in the center. I thrust my hand in and graps it.

I'm struck from behind. I strike out wildly, try to move away, and find my attackers have caught up to me.

The heat in the room is growing impossibly. The pillar is wobbling, unstable, and the very air trembles in a haze. The Dremora pursue me, and I try to run, am cut off by scamps, backed against a wall, the stone is vibrating violently in my hand, they are closing in my zombie is summoned but there is little he can do everything is so hot I can't breathe the fire is growing the pillar has exploded the room is envoloped in flames they rush at my face—

Black.

* * *

Tall gates climb high in front of me, set into large stone walls that are crumbling in some places. The dirt under my feet is charred and the plantlife is nonexistant. The sky is a swirl of blue and black and red and grey, all battling for dominance.

My heart is hammering. My whole body feels like it's shaking.

A breeze blows around me, hitting my skin, chilling me. Cold.

Relief.

I turn around, and find I'm standing between what's left of the pillars that had been the Oblivion Gate. It's gone now, in a whiff of dust and magic that's still left sizzling in the air.

I did it.

Blue and grey finally win over in the sky, and clouds overtake everything. Rain looks like it's threatening to pour down.

I trudge over the expanse back to the barricade. Savlian is there with his men, all staring ahead at me in some sort of wonderous stupor. It's unnerving. I ignore it.

"You . . . you did it! You closed the gate!" Savlian's face breaks out into a smile. "By the gods, we do stand a chance! This is it; we'll launch a counter attack before they can barricade the doors."

The other men cheer, readying their weapons. I pass over each of their faces, searching. The soldier from inside there gate is there. Menien is not.

He must not have gotten out after all.

Savlian looks to them, grinning, then face me again. "Will you fight with us?"

"At your command."

"Good. You obviously have far more experience than my men—they are only city watchmen, and our days have been mostly peacefull until now. You should lead with me."

I merely nod, not bothering to correct him. Experienced? I feel like I am only two days old. But those two days have been filled with battle and death, so . . . I suppose he isn't wrong.

With a collective cry of "For Kvatch!" we rush the city.

The plaza is filled with scamps and clanfears, reptillian beasts, with a Dremora appearing to lead the collective, blasting away at us from the back as his minions run at us.

The chapel looms behind them, cut off.

Martin.

I summon the zombie and surge forward. I don't bother with the dagger; flames blaze from my fingertips, launching across the plaza, scamps and clanfears igniting. Savlian and I make our way through and tagteam the Dremora mage, backing him into a corner.

All the soldiers seem surprised when the fight is over.

"Without reinforcements overwhelming us, these creatures are nothing!" Savlian smiles, elated, obviously riding the high of our successive victories. "Alright everyone, let's get those civilians out of the chapel and back to the camp. Then we'll see about a plan of attack!"

A cheer rings out, and well all march up the chapel steps, and Savlian knocks at the door, calling to those inside. After several seconds, there rustling and shuffling, obviously someone moving a barricade out of the way, and the doors are opened to us.

Other soldiers are waiting for us, and Savlian begins speaking to one at once. I pay attention long enough to catch the important part:

"We're all that's left."

That isn't much; a few more soldiers and a small group huddled over by the alter. One of them is going between people, apparently ministering to their needs, dressed in shabby robes.

Priest's robes.

 _Martin._

A hand claps me on the shoulder. "Ha! We've really done it! I hardly believed we could . . ."

It's Savlian. I don't care.

He's there. Right in front of me.

"But with the gate closed," Savlian continues, obvlious to my distraction, "we could even retake the entire city! The daedra have no more reinforcements, no retreat. We can kill them in waves, attack, rest, regroup if we have to. But the city could be ours again! We just have to get to the castle. If we can clear it out, we've all but won."

How do I approach him? What do I say? Jauffre said he doesn't know. How do you break this kind of news to someone?

Savlian is still talking. "You've come this far with us; will see this to the end? I don't know if we can do this without you."

I finally look away from Martin to Savlian. I have to take several glances between them, debating, and he notices.

"Oh, that's right. You were looking for the priest, weren't you? Do you know him?"

"No." I have a mission; I need to get Martin out of here and to the Priory. But these people . . . it's like they need me. Savlian certainly thinks they do. Savlian, captain of the guard, a real soldier. His men are gathered around him, readying to go. One is rallying up the civilians, including Martin.

When did I, a simple prisoner trapped in a stone cell, become someone that true warriors look to as their leader? When the blood of the Emporer was spilt before my eyes, what right do I have to claim to defend anyone, or to guide these men into battle—and to their deaths?

I know my mission is more important than the last few lives left in a lost city, but there is no way I can stand aside when people's lives are in the balance. The image of the Emporer's blood soaked body prostrate on the dirty stone floor is seered into my mind, and I will never allow another innocent to die when I can— _should_ —be their defender.

These people are coming to depend on me too much, but I can't abandon them. It is an odd feeling, being looked up to. I feels like I just can't turn away.

"I'll go with you."

He claps me on the back again, and I stumble. "Ha ha, I knew you'd come! Our goal is the Castle gate."

He turns to all his men, the leader once more, as though he hadn't just been turned to me, begging help.

"We'll make our way through the city to the front of the gatehouse. Stick close, keep your eyes open, and be ready all. Tierra, come join us once the civillians are secure. Let's move out!"

A chorrus of "Sir!" rings out, and the soldiers begin marching out the far door while the woman who had briefed Savlian when we came in leads the crowd out the way we'd come. I hang back, watching, as Martin shuffles by and disappears out the door. I follow the soldiers the other way.

He'll be safe out there for a while longer.

Honestly, the immediate threat once we're outside isn't much compared to what we've faced before. We pick off a small group of scamps rather easily, and make for the gate. The feat is so underwhelming that I'm not surprised to find the gate barred from the other side; nothing has been easy so far, after all.

Savlian, of course, goes to me for assistance. "Head back and find Berich Inian, he ought to have the key to the North Guard House. There's a passage there that should lead you to the gatehouse where you can raise the gate."

I go, but my trip is much shorter than I expect; upon entering the chapel, I find it filled once more, with patrolmen and guards. I'm spotted and approached immediately.

"We were on patrol out on the Gold Road and saw the smoke. The other guards have already explained. How can we help?"

"I suppose you're with me, then." The female guard and a male have returned, and I call over to them. "Is one of you Berich Inian?"

The man raises and quickly steps over. "That's me. What is it?"

"We need the key to the guardhouse; the gate's locked."

"We'll have to go through the Undercroft below the chapel and through what's left of the city to get inside to unlock it, then."

"Then that's what we do. Lead the way."

He nods, determined, and motions for the others to follow as we head down the stairs and through the door to the Undercroft. The tomb is full of statues, the resting likenesses of those long past—and daedra. It's just scamps, though, and with a reluctant sigh I stow the nausea growing in my stomach and light my hands aflame, tossing balls of fire to roast the little beasts.

Once outside, we are in the city proper—or, as Berich said, what's left of it. The ruins are charred, broken, and still smoking in places. The rain has finally started pouring down, dousing the fires, but that hasn't stopped the spread yet.

It is a dreary sight, crawling with more scamps, bleak under a grey sky. But we shove on, killing.

I wonder why it's so easy to kill these things. They are live, aren't they? They have thoughts, don't they? I wonder what they think, what they feel. I wonder if they regret what they've done when they die.

Berich leads us to a storage area, where I hatch is all but hidden behind the stacks of crates and barrels. Removing the lids, we climb down the rusty ladder one by one, until we are all crammed into the narrow corridor to where ever this leads.

The halls are filled with more burning debris, making it hard to breathe through the smoke. We cover our faces, choking, as we make our way across to the next tower, where we climb up more hand rails—and finally find the gate.

Scrambling to the otherside and up the stairs, I grab hold of the wheel on the wall and twist, cranking the gate up. Savlian and the others come pouring through, running down the next courtyard filled with scamps.

Keeping to the edge of the fighting, I draw away scamp after scamp to set ablaze, careful to keep my fire away from the soldiers. One of the men gives a cry, and I circle around to where he lays, injured, and pump my healing energies into him. With a nod of thanks, he's back into the fight—which doesn't last much longer.

With a cheer, Savlian shoots me a grin and leads the group into the castle proper, out of the storm. The castle, of course, is in shables, just like the rest of the city. Pillars are down, broken to pieces in the floor, furniture is on fire, and scamps roam free, hissing and burning everything in they're path.

I do a lot more healing during this fight that I'm comfortable with. I want to be out there, chasing down the little monsters, burning them, but every time I hear a friend call out in need, my fire fades and I rush to them. It is never easy to turn from the battle; fighting is so natural, so easy to me, razing my enemies with heat like breething. But I joined these men to save lives, and that's what I make myself do; not just the easy way, but with restraint as well.

And as I watch the scamps cast their fire at my comrades, I see myself—not in the guards, but in the daedra.

Fire and death.

"All right, this is it!" Savlian calls out, rallying his guards to his side. I'm surprised, however, when the patrolmen come to me. Savlian, apparently, is not, and nods my way. "We'll hold this area. You head to the back of the castle, and find the Count. Don't come back here without him, do you understand?"

"Sir."

Heading up the stairs around the tarnished throne, we move out.

The next room is in just as much dissarray as the last, and we are fighting scamps almost without thinking. It is becoming a reflex. They are everywhere; an infestation. Like virmin.

We check all the branching halls. Most are blocked off, caved in or blocked with debris. The one at the end, however . . .

Just one little scamp. That's all. All that made it into the count's quarters. It's so easy for me to kill, it's almost laughable.

And yet . . .

And yet, there he is. On the floor, lying face down in a pool of his own blood, dressed resplendantly in fine purple velvet, grey hair pulled back neatly.

For a moment, Uriel Septim's body is there and not the Count's, and I am reliving my most hopeless moment once again. It shakes me to the bone, shakes my nerves so badly I simply turn around and leave.

I double over in the floor outside the door, arms across my knees, head tucked in the nook they create. A pile of flaming furniture casts flickering light over me, and all I can see is Uriel's face again. Everything burns inside me; my chest, my shoulders, my stomach, my eyes.

"Sir?" The lead patrolman has followed me out.

Closing my eyes, I bring a hand up to rub them.

"Apologies," I say stiffly, standing.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

I stare at him from beneath my hood, shocked. What does he know of my loss?

His face is sympathetic, almost worried.

"We should report this to the others."

What?

Oh.

The Count. He doesn't know I am not a citizen of Kvatch, and thinks I mourn the stranger in the other room.

It doesn't matter.

I step around him and back into the room, pausing to kneel beside the Count. "Savlian said not to return without him."

Gently, I roll the man over and scoop him up into my arms. People are heavy, and I think about throwing him over my shoulder. But I look down at his face and see his grey hair and for a moment his face isn't his face, and I can do nothing but hold him this way, carry him out.

Our trek is slow because of my burden, but my comrades are respectful and march slowly as well, standing around me like a guard detail, escorting the Count out to be recieved by his true mourners.

It is more than Uriel Septim had, and he deserved so much more. I feel tear trails burn hot on my skin, searing my face.

I am certain Savlian could see us coming, know our tidings, as soon as we entered, but he waited, a statue, at the entrance as we walked down the stairs around the throne and down the center of the room to stand before him. I knelt with reverence, my arms and back aching from the weight, and lay him as gently as I can at Savlian's feet.

"We . . . we were too late?" He stares down, as though unbelieving, wide eyed; he is suddenly darker, dressed in silver and gold armor, standing over Uriel. Then he drops to one knee, cringing. "If only we'd gotten here sooner! This is indeed a dark day for all of us left."

We all stand in silence, the guardsmen huddled close around their fallen leader, the patrolmen at my back. When Savlian looks up again, his face is weary, but composed. He lifts one of the Count's hands hand gently removes the large signet ring from his finger, and closes his fingers around it.

"What was his name?" I ask.

"Ormellius Goldwine." As he stands, so do I, and he grips my shoulder, squeezing. "I thank you for risking your own life to help us. The Count's Signet Ring is safe, at least, and I shall make sure it is protected, for the time when a new Count is crowned. Though, when that happens, I shall no longer be captain of the guard."

With that proclamation, Savlian unbelts, bends down and tugs his cuirass over his head, catching it's weight on one shaky arm.

"I'm tired of fighting." He smiles, though, sadly, and seems to remember I'm there. He holds up the cuirass to me. "Here. You don't seem have any armor. It's yours, if you'd like. It'll serve you well."

I don't need it. I know I don't. I didn't like the feel of my leather, don't really like armor at all. I'd rather just take my hits in a fight. I deserve to take my hits.

But I reach out and accept it, nodding.

"Thank you."

"You know, I never did get your name." This seems to amuse him.

"Erin."

"Well, thank you again, Erin. You saved our city. Without you, that gate never would have been closed, and we'd never have gotten back inside the walls. You are, truly, the hero of Kvatch."

Uncomfortable, I shift, rolling my shoulders. "I just came to help a friend, is all. I couldn't leave the rest of you."

"Well, Kvatch is lucky Brother Martin had such a dutiful friend as you, then."

Martin? It was Uriel who had me come. Martin's never met me. But, again—it doesn't matter. So little seems to, now that I think on it.

"What will you all do now?" I glance around, including the group of them in the conversation. They all look to Savlian, anyway, though, and he answers.

"Rebuild, of course. It's not the first time Kvatch has been in ruins, and she'll rise again all the same."

"We'll stay and assist all we can," the Patrolman behind me pipes in.

Savlian grins and shakes his hand, and I see Kvatch is well cared for, indeed.

"Good luck to you all, then. Blessings on the Nine upon you. I have a priest to check on."

The group nods, and I'm subjected to several pats on the back, thank yous, and reverent stares before I slip out of the castle and find myself back in the courtyard, littered with scamp bodies, the smell of ash not fading. Rain pounds me, raindrops thick and heavy, sky shaking and rumbling, deafening in my ears.

Gods, I'm tired.

It's over. So why does it only now feel like too much?

I trudge across the courtyard, the bridge, out into the open air, and I stare up into the sky, letting the water pelt my face with a violence that calls to me.

I have helped this city and it's people. But all I can see is the Count; the Count, and not the Count.

Uriel.

One I failed to save. Two I failed to save. How many more? Am I so useless, worthless.

No. I did good today. I accomplished so much. Kvatch can be rebuilt because of my aid. All those who had taken refuge in the chapel are safe because of my help. _Martin_ is safe.

For how long? I failed Uriel. I have failed this Count. He is dead because I failed him, I should remember him for the rest of my days.

I glare around at the scamp bodies, I flashes of people, masked, dressed in red, are there instead.

Death shouldn't be so easy.

The flames still dance across the city beneath the stormy sky, impervious, almost, to the rain.

Fire and death.

Will those I fight to protect with fire always die? Is this what I am doing wrong? Were Uriel's words prophecy, a warning, like his dreams?

Glancing down at my palms, I clench my hands and swear.

No matter how easy it is, no matter how natural it comes, I will never again use fire to protect. _It_ is what is failing them, not me. Fire is bedfellows with death, and can only _end_ in death.

I must find a new weapon, a new way to protect those in need.

To protect Uriel's son.

But what? I close my eyes, letting the rain wash over me, feeling—for once—cold.

It's nice.

* * *

I slip inside the chapel, my robes dripping pink water onto the stone floors. I stand there, staring at the puddle forming. There isn't a reason that I can tell. I'm just so tired.

"Are you alright?"

I glance up, having expected the building to be empty—and freeze.

It's Martin.

"You were with the soldiers, weren't you? How goes the battle? Do you need rest?"

I had glimpsed him before, from far off, but now I approach him slowly, transfixed, and as his confused face comes into view, I drop to one knee, striken with grief.

It is a young Uriel Septim standing before me, and I feel the pressure of that precious life once again settling on my shoulders. I see my Emperor in his son's face, his eyes, his build, the very lines in his skin, even the way his thick hair falls, laying in almost the same style. How many times in this day must I see his face again, and lose it?

He drops down beside me, startled. "Are you injured? Here, let me have a look at you."

His hand reaches for me, and I brush is away with the back of my own, gently. It's hard to speak; I have to swallow roughly. "I am not injured."

"Tired, then? You must be weary from the battle. Here, there are bedrolls laid out—"

Taking hold of my arm, he pulls me up, his touch only light, guiding, and I go with as he leads me over to the walls where the mat is spread, pillow and blanket ready.

"Rest."

"I'm all wet," I comment; it's barely a protest.

"Do you need a change of clothes?"

I shake my head. "I just don't wish to dirty your bedroll."

He chuckles softly. "Do not worry over such a thing. You have fought well. You deserve a rest."

Obediently, I lay down. I am striken by wonder to finally be speaking with him. I can think of nothing to say.

"Are others coming?" He asks as he pulls the blanket up over me.

"Most likely, eventually. The count is dead, but the castle is retaken."

"That is both tragic and wonderful news, then." He smiles. "Are you certain you don't wish for dry clothes? It is no problem to get some from the storage room."

"Why did you return to the chapel?" I change the subject.

He settles by the alter beside me, leaning his arm against a propped up knee. "I have already had a look at most of the refugees, tended to their injuries. I felt I would be more needed here, for those fighting to reclaim our city."

"So you've just been waiting here, alone?"

"Well, with the wreckage about the city, I thought this would be the place you'd all most likely return to on your way out. And I'm closer this way. Why not?"

"The city was overrun with daedra, and you ask 'why not' be here?"

He only shrugs. We settle into silence, listening to the rain on the windows and the rumble of thunder, the occasionaly flash lighting up the chapel. He seems content to sit with me, waiting to be of use.

He is as selfless as his father; kind, reassuring, gentle.

Here is my second chance to protect the man who looked at me, a criminal, and saw only hope, and who had died knowing full well his death was coming for him and we wouldn't be able to protect him.

That old man, whom I'd known for only a short time, has and still is shaping my life. My past hadn't mattered to him, and he said he saw only a bright future for me, and somehow I want to prove him right, to make him proud. Maybe that is what made him a true king, that charisma, that instantaneous friendship I'd felt. In that dungeon, I had thought I would have died for that man.

Instead, I swear I will die for his son, rather than fail again.

I am so caught up in my thoughts I forget to worry about having nightmares like the night before. But in this chapel, beside the son of my only friend, my future Emperor, I am not beseiged with flashes of the lives I've taken, the lives I've failed to save, nor the crushing weight of the responsibility that has been dropped onto my shoulders.


	4. Chapter 4 - Where Spirits Have Lease

I awaken, groggy, to the sounds of rustling armor, shuffling feet, and hushed voices. One of those voices is the smooth, deep tone of Brother Martin, and I half sit, half roll in my blanket bundle to see over my shoulder to the entrance.

The patrolmen have returned. Their armor is dry, and I notice the patter of the rain on the chapel has stopped. Martin is with them, deep in conversation. The group is rather fuzzy to my sleepy eyes.

Rolling back and settling in, I rub my face and swallow, fighting the urge to clear my throat; I don't feel like drawing attention at the moment. I simply lay in the silence for several minutes, not bothering to open my eyes. My blanket is nothing special, almost threadbare and a bit scratchy, but it still feels like heaven pulled over my shoulders, pressed to my cheek, and smelling like some slightly damp underground storage room. The pillow is much the same, almost flat and thin enough to feel the floor beneath, but it's only the second bed I've ever slept in, and I love it.

When I really start to feel awake, I notice food has been set out next to my bedrool: a loaf of bread, some cheese, a carrot, and half a glass of mead. I tear the loaf in half and begin pulling off small bites, along with crumbling bits of cheese. It's amazing how hungry I begin to feel once the food hits my empty stomach; I hadn't even realized.

I've finished off my half of the bread, part of the cheese, and the whole carrot, and am downing the wine within minutes. The door to the chapel creaks and shuts as I'm finishing, and I hear Martin sigh before he comes back over.

"Ah, you're awake." He smiles softly as he sits, but he still looks strained.

"Have you slept at all?"

"Yes, for a while."

"Did you eat?"

He stares at me oddly, then chuckles. "Who's supposed to be caring for who here?"

"Depends on who needs cared for, I suppose."

He hums in agreement at that, and I push the plate of bread and cheese closer to him. He selects the bread and takes a bite out of the corner.

I sit up the rest of the way while he chews. "What did the patrolmen want?"

Swallowing, he answers without looking at me, "Funeral rights for the Count."

"You did not wish to perform them?"

The bread pauses on its way to his mouth. "I . . . prayed all night in this chapel while the daedra overran our city. Prayed and prayed and prayed. For help to come, for salvation. And it never came. My faith . . . as it is, it would be sacrilege for me to perform funeral rights."

"Understandable." What else do I say? The silence stretches out and he eats, staring at the floor. I feel like I should offer comfort, that I should defend the gods—but these are the gods that showed Uriel his death and let us do nothing to change it, who killed that good man right in front of me.

"All this destruction . . . " Martin mutters, letting the bread drop back the plate. "All this _death_. If this is all part of some larger plan, I cannot see it. I want no part in it. Or part with gods like that."

He pulls his knees up, laying his arms across them so his head can rest there. He looks defeated.

I cannot allow my Emperor to be defeated.

And he is my Emperor now.

"I'm sorry," he says after a moment, raising up and smiling a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I do not mean to say such things. I would hate to hurt the faith of another just because I am struggling with my own. Belief is a powerful and comforting thing. I miss it already."

He's chuckling again. I cannot laugh.

"Help did come."

"Hm?" He looks to me, brows pulled together.

"You said you prayed all night for help. It _did_ come. I came. I was slow, and I am sorry for that. But I came."

He stares for several seconds, then looks away. "Yes, you did. Thank you. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. I am not very happy with the gods and their plans at the moment, myself."

I watched a good man die because of them.

Martin doesn't ask about that. Instead, he says, "The patrolmen spoke highly of you. You are being hailed as the hero of our city."

"Am I a hero that I could not sit back and watch others die? I call that basic decency."

"You are a stranger here, not of this city. Some would say it wasn't your fight."

"Some are cowards, and that is their prerogative. I could not walk away. It was not a choice. It is not in me."

"That is what makes you a hero, is it not?"

I look at him this time. "If it is, then it does not help me feel like one."

Unworthy is what I feel. Corpses are all I see, every time I close my eyes, every time I stop to think.

"Heroes seldom feel heroic, from what I can tell."

"Then I fit right in."

Martin chuckles again, and finally resumes eating. I let him, and let the quiet remain for a time, trying to work through my own thoughts.

We have to go. There's no telling how much time I've wasted sleeping. If the daedra attacked here once to take his life, they'll certainly return when they realize they didn't get the job done. I have to move him, and quickly.

Which means I have to explain. Everything.

I have to tell him his father was the Emperor. And is dead. Along with his three half brothers. And that he's next on the assassin's list. His whole town was destroyed because daedra are after him. He's the next Emperor.

The list gets longer the more I think about it. It makes my head throb.

"Why did you come to the city, then? Were you passing by and saw the smoke, like the patrolmen?"

And here it is, I suppose. He's brought it up himself, in a way.

"No. I came here looking for you."

"For me? Whatever for?" He appears mildly curious, nothing more. That changes quickly with my next words.

"For the same reason the daedra attacked this city." He is shocked, and I meet his wide eyes with a steady, serious gaze so he will not doubt me when I continue. "What do you know of your father?"

"My father?" His brow crinkles. "He was a simple farmer. Both my parents died when I was a baby, I was raised at an orphanage here in Kvatch. What does he have to do with this? And what do you know of the daedra attack? Tell me!"

He reaches out, a rough hand grasping my shoulder.

"Your father was not a farmer, Martin. He was Emperor Uriel."

That hand loosens as Martin's eyes widen once more. "What? No . . . no, that's not . . . that's impossible, my father couldn't be—You must have the wrong man."

"I do not. You are his spitting image." It hurts to say. My throat tightens, eyes burn. Gods, when will the thought of him—practically a stranger—stop hurting so much? It is too soon to ask such a thing, I suppose.

I look away, clearing my throat, letting Martin have a moment to process this. His eyes are darting back and forth as I look up, his mind miles away.

"The grandmaster of the Emperor's personal guard confirmed it," I add slowly. "He spirited you from the castle himself, as a baby, on the Emperor's orders. Brother Martin, priest of the temple of Akatosh in Kvatch."

" . . . he sent you to find me?"

"No, he just told me where to look. Emperor Uriel sent me to find you."

"The Emperor?" Martin looks up, face drawn and strained. "The Emperor is dead."

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. It hurts. I cringe.

"Yes." My voice cracks a bit as it finally emerges. "Yes, he is dead. I was with him . . . when he died. I couldn't protect him."

I bow my head. It all swells inside me, hot and angry and sad and ashamed, bombarded by images of him—alive, dead, dying, fighting. Never smiling. Did he ever smile for me, before the end? Who would, knowing what was to come? I can't remember. There is so much I can't remember, and it is this most painful thing that I can't forget. Gods, I would hate myself if I did.

"I am so sorry." I can't look up. "I couldn't protect him."

I want to repeat it a thousand times. I couln't protect him. I should have. I didn't. I tried, by the Nine, I tried.

" . . . it's alright. I'm sure you did everything you could." His hand is on my shoulder again. It feels heavy. "He had plenty of guards; if they couldn't have protected him, no one could."

It does not feel good enough. But I let out a long breath, trying to let it go, and nod.

"I'm sorry you never got to meet him."

"Not knowing my father is something I've lived with my whole life. Learning his identity has not changed that." Martin shrugs, and his hand slips away as he looks around at the misplaced benches, haphazardly set out bedrools, and scattered stores of food. "Everything that has happened . . . all this destruction and death . . . has been because of me. Because the daedra were after me. Because . . . "

Hs expression falls, changes, morphs into wonder and confusion, brows pulled together.

"Because I am the Emperor's son?"

He is coping as best he can, but I can't help but keep adding to his burden, though little by little do I try to heap it on him. "And the only living heir to the Septim throne."

"Heir?" Startled again, he stares at me. "Me? You can't possibly want me to _rule,_ certainly?"

It is my turn to shrug. "I do not know what is in store for you, Sire. The grandmaster I mentioned, Jauffre, asked me to escort you to him. He will know what to do next. But, most likely, you will take the throne. Only one with Septim blood can light the dragonfires, as I understand it. You are needed. And you are not safe here."

"No, and it would seem that no one else is safe while I'm around, either." Sighing, Martin stands and reaches a hand down to me. "We should go, and go quickly."

I hesitate. "You believe me so easily?"

"I am told you destroyed that Oblivion Gate yourself. You went to battle with my people, gave them hope, and helped them drive the daedra back. After risking so much, why would you lie? As incredible as your story sounds, it also rings with pausibility, and it is a pausibility I cannot ignore. You saved my city, and I owe you for that, at the very least." He pauses, and I take his hand. He helps pull me up, and doesn't let go once I'm on my feet. Waiting till I meet his eyes beneath my hood, he continues, "I do believe you. I have my doubts about it all, but you, at least, seem sincere. I will go with you."

My grip on his hand tightens, then I pull away, turning towards the door. "Grab food if you wish. I have a horse, but it is still a three hour journey if we cut across country—nine if we go by the main roads."

"Where are we going?"

"Weynon Priory, outside of Chorrol."

"We can buy food ourselves if we take the main road, and it is not long to go without if we cut across. There's no need to take from what little Kvatch has left."

Thinking of his people before himself. Uriel's son, indeed. "The terrain is rough if cut across; it will be hard on the horse, especially with both of us in the saddle. Still, it seems like the better option to gaurantee we aren't followed."

"You think someone would follow us?" Martin tsks himself almost as soon as he's spoken. "Of course we could be followed. It was people who assassinated the Emperor, after all. They may have used daedra to attack this city, but that is most likely an extreme measure. They will be after us on foot after this, once they've learned I'm alive."

"And after your heroics rounding up survivors and barracading the church, word will get out quickly, I'd say."

"Then across country we'll go."

* * *

Outside, the sun is still in hiding, but the ground is drying. People are scattered about here and there, mostly carting off debris and clearing roads so everyone can get around. It's barely been a day, by the look of it, but already the rebuilding of Kvatch is underway.

"These are good people."

Martin smiles softly at my words, and has to stop several times to wave, say hello, and ward of thank yous as we go. Hasty explanations are given—"I'm afraid I won't be around to help, I'll be staying with my friend for a while"—as we wade through aquantances and finally exit the city. Almost as soon as the gates are shut, Martin exhales audibly.

"I feel foolish and terrible, lying to my friends; telling them I am leaving with you when they need my help rebuilding. And realizing I couldn't have told them your name if they'd asked me."

I glance back at him as we continue to walk.

"It's Erin."

"It's good to meet you, Erin."

"Hmph." I smile a little at that. It isn't good to meet me at all. It's been terrible for him.

Prior Mayborel's horse is still standing behind the barricade, a bit farther back than I left her, grazing lazily. There isn't much grass left for her, sadly. I can't believe she didn't cut and run, what with the fiery gate to Oblivion and the daedra running about.

I pet her, running my hand up and down her neck. "Good girl."

Unfastening the saddle bags, I jimmy them between a few rocks on the hillside for hiding. "There, we should both be able to ride now—though, I doubt it will be comfortable. I apologize for that."

"It's fine. I can hardly complain when you are trying to keep me alive."

"Hm, true enough." I climb on, then offer him a hand. It isn't easy getting him up behind the saddle, especially when a second rider was not meant to be back there, but we manage it. "Keep hold so you don't fall off. And let me know when you need a break. We can walk some of the way and give the horse a rest."

"Um, keep hold of what?"

"The back of the saddle is fine, or my shoulders or waist, however you're most comfortable."

"I think I have ahold of the saddle."

"You think?"

"I've got it."

"If you say so."

I urge us forward, and Martin jostles a bit behind me, but he settles well enough as we trot down the hill. The road's wide and even, but I start us off easy, not wanting to chance throwing Martin with all the twists.

His weight feels good behind me, his presence a comfort. His body radiates a natural heat, as people do, and it doesn't feel at all like the warmth of magic or the burn of the Deadlands.

At the bottom, we reach the fork in the road and find a wolf waiting for us. Annoyed, I dismount and summon my dagger, ready to take care of it.

"Allow me, sir. Stay back."

I stop, a patrolman coming up from the opposite way. He dismounts, jangling loudly in his heavy armor, drawing the wolf's attention. He unsheethes his sword and strikes the dog down. It takes him a few more strikes than I would have liked, messy and painful for the creature.

"Are either of you injured?" he asks once the deed is done.

I shake my head and turn back to the horse, more than ready to be on my way.

"Might I ask the two of you a few questions?" He has put his sword away, and approaches openly enough.

I halt in my remount to show I'm waiting.

"The regular patrols haven't returned from their rounds since yesterday, and we have reports of smoke and daedra near Kvatch. Have either of you seen or heard anything?"

How troublesome.

Martin spares me having to answer. "Daedra did indeed overrun the city. It has since been retaken, but the damage is extensive. The patrolmen have gone up to help, first with fighting off the daedra, and now with the cleanup. The rebuilding has already begun. I'm sure any more assistance the patrol could offer would be greatly appreciated. Many, many homes were destroyed and the citizens are living in tents and crowding in the chapel."

"That's terrible news!" The patrolman steps back to grab his horse, leading it with him as he walks up to us. "Though I'm glad the attack has already ended. I will confirm things with the others in the city and ride back to Anvil for more assistance."

"Thank you, sir. They will be most greatful."

The patrolman stares at me oddly for a moment, not seeming to hear Martin. "Where, might I ask, are the two of you headed?"

"Leyawiin," I answer smoothly. "My father is ill, and a devote follower of Akatosh. We have offered the priest a place in our home until Kvatch is rebuilt, so long as he remains at my father's bedside as he passes to pray with him. I was on my way even before the attack took place."

"Is that so?" The patrolman steps forward, releasing his horse and drawing his sword. "Because underneath that hood of yours, you fit the description of a woodelf prisoner that went missing from the Imperial City Prison when the Emperor was murdered!"

What!? Gods, did Baurus not clear me to the other guards? Did he even make it out of the underground alive?

"You're under arrest, woodelf! Surrender, or be cut down!"

What do I do? He's a man of the law, only doing his job. I can't fight him. But I can't let myself be arrested, either. I have to get Martin to Jauffre.

"Wait! There must be some misunderstanding—"

Martin is lost beside me, reaching forward to grab the reigns as the horse knickers uneasily.

"If there's a misunderstanding, come with me to Anvil and we'll get this cleared right up," the patrolman says, sword still ready.

We'll lose time. But what choice do I have? This man is right, and he is innocent. I can't fight him. I can't.

"Alright," I relent, holding my hands up. "I surrender."

I'm careful not to hold them up high enough that they reveal my manacles. If he tries to bind me, he'll find them, though. That's not something I'll be able to explain.

Without taking his eyes off me or pointing his sword away, he backs up and uses his free hand to rummage through his saddlebags, and comes back with robe. Curses.

My luck doesn't seem to have run out just yet, however. The patrolman doesn't bother to push up my sleeves when he binds me, wrapping the rope around the fabric instead. His binding is secure, but his inexperience is suddenly rather obvious.

He remounts his horse, leaving me to trail along side him, trying to keep up, as my bindings are only at one end of the rope. He holds the other, tugging me along when he doesn't like my pace.

Behind us, Martin repositions himself into the saddle and begins following. The patrolman doesn't like this, and stops.

"What are you doing, civilian?"

"I'm going with you to Anvil, of course. And when my friend is cleared of this misunderstanding and released, we will get back on our way."

"If you try to free him—"

"He surrendered peacefully, and I am a priest. There will be no escape attempt, or he wouldn't have surrendered in the first place."

The patrolman glares between us, before snapping at Martin, "Fine. But you ride ahead of us."

"I do not know the way."

"The road does not divert. Just follow it."

The man is losing his patience. Martin relents to his request, and goes around us, leading the way for the rest of the rather boring and tedious trip.

* * *

I do not enjoy being imprisoned again.

My new cell is rather different from my old one, I admit. Much nicer, actually. But that does not lessen my displeasure at being behind bars onnce more in the slightest.

Gone are the damp stone walls of the Imperial City Prison, and instead I find my lodgings warmer, cleaner, and more accomodating. There's a bench, a small table, and a loaf of bread to eat, which is something, and two bedrolls laid out. They are about as comfortable as the one from the chapel in Kvatch, but there is nothing to do in my imprisonment besides lay there and wait, and that is exactly what I am forced to do for what turns out to be a full twenty-four hours.

I get sleep while I can, but I wake easily, at every coming and going of the guards, and what little rest I get is fitful and nightmarish, overrun with images of death and memories of battle. It is with relief that, the next time I wake and sit up to watch the guard make his rounds, he stops at my door and unlocks it.

"Word has come from the Imperial City that you were given an Imperial Pardon prior to the Emperor's death, and didn't escape after all, and had no part in his assassination." He eyes me as though he hardly believes this, and I don't really blame him. But I feel a bit better knowing this means Baurus must be alive, after all. "You are free to go, with the Countess' apologies for any inconvenience. You can pick up your things on the way out."

Slipping past him, I do just that, and make my way out. I'm escorted all the way to the courtyard before the guards finally leave me to my own devices. My devices include only one task: finding my companion.

Crossing the bridge and entering the town proper, I find the chapel directly on my left. Figuring they might have offered a fellow priest a place for the night, I check there first.

An Imperial woman approaches me warmly. "Blessing of Dibella upon you, stranger. I am Dumania Jirich, Primate of Anvil. I speak with the voice of Dibella, and greet you with love."

I fight the impulse to step away. Her friendliness puts me off.

"Greetings, Primate." Is that the right way to address her? I don't know. She doesn't object, so I continue. "I traveled here with a friend, but we got seperated on the road. I wondered if he had come by here? He's a priest of Akatosh."

"Oh, yes! Handsome fellow." She smiles in such a way that I am struck by the urge to curse her. I resist. "He came by yesterday evening, asking for directions to the inn. Shy, I thought, but sweet enough."

Directions to the inn, huh. I wonder if he was just as weirded out by this place as I am.

"Thank you, Primate. The Nine go with you."

"Oh, and with you, sir."

I waste no time leaving.

A chapel of Dibella? My mind tosses a few lewd associations with the name of the divine, and I frown. Not a goddess I'm fond of, then.

I pass up a large building as I walk, and fnd myself drawn to it. The sign hanging above the door depicts an eye, "Mages Guild" written above it. I'm tempted to step in, but I know I need to find Martin and get out of town, the sooner the better.

The inn is easy enough to locate. A sign hangs above the door much like with the guild, the building being at the other end of town. I approach the innkeeper inside, and he's friendly enough, but thankfully, not overly so.

"How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a friend of mine, a priest of Akatosh. I'm told he came here last night for a room."

The innkeeper nods, but frowns thoughtfully. "Yes, a priest came in just before dark. Didn't have enough money for a room, however. Got to chatting with Velwyn Benirus on his way out, though, and they left together. Velwyn came back this morning alone though. That's him, over there at the corner table."

The inkeeper shoots a thumb over his shoulder. The table's just off to the side of the bar, occupied by a chatty Imperial and a Dunmer woman. She leaves as I approach, and gives me a winning smile, not waiting for me to even speak as he launches into his own speal.

"Looking to settle down, miss? I just happen to be selling a manor located right here in Anvil. Beautiful place, old family home."

"I'm just looking for my friend, the priest of Akatosh that was here last night."

"Oh, that fellow." Velwyn's smile slips. "He was looking for room for the night, and I, uh . . . well, I thought he might . . . bless the house and such, you know, in compensation for a place to sleep, free of charge."

I don't like his hesitation. "Where?"

"It's the place at the end of the road on the corner, by the fountain and the Fighters Guild."

I give his chair a kick. "Take me."

Flinching, he none the less stands and leads me out.

Gods. Most important man in all Cyrodiil, and he's doing free blessings on houses for a place to sleep. There are assassins after this man's life, for goodness' sakes.

The manor, I must admit, is impressive. The water fixture beside it is beautiful, with a statue in the center and a short dock. The yard is large, and despite the obvious age and disrepair, it has an appeal to it. There's a stone gate around it, steps, and it's two stories with shuttered windows and a stone porch.

It's on this porch that Velwyn stops, biting his lip.

I narrow my eyes. "Problem?"

"No," he laughs. "Of course not. This is the place. The bedroom is right upstairs, I'm sure your friend is up and about so you just head on in and—"

Purple smoke glitters around my hand as my dagger materializes, and the man stops.

"Alright!" His voice is gruff, gone all of his earlier fake cheer and friendliness. "So the old place is haunted. I thought the priest could do some good, drive out the spirits with his divine power or something. The priestesses of Dibella in this town won't go near the place, they know all the rumors. But your friend was new, and more than willing to help for a bed, and I didn't think any harm could befall him in one night—"

Velwyn is pressed against the wall, my knife at his throat in seconds.

"What happened!?"

He stares down at my dagger in fear. "Ghosts attacked us! I stayed as long as I could, but I can't fight those things! He wouldn't leave, though! He was fine when I left, determined to fight them off and clense the place! I left a key with him in case he wanted out of there, but he told me to lock the door behind me when I went! That's the truth, I swear!"

Growling, I pull my hand away and shove him towards the door. "If he's injured, I will injure you in all the same ways."

Gulping, Velwyn unlocks the door and I follow him inside.

The front room has seen better days, but the elegance of the place beneath the mess is not lost on me. There's a beautifully carved stone fireplace and pillars around the door, and a balcony leaning over from the second story above. The furniture, however, is in shambles.

I move towards the kitchen—and am hit by a gaseous green glow.

The ghoul hovers over the smashed dining table, the fallen chandelier having delivered a crushing blow. It charges me through the air, moaning as it comes.

Martin has been in here, all night and most of the day, with these creatures. If they are still alive, then he—

"AHHHHHH!" I charge it right back, my whole arm igniting as I pull it back and throw it forward. I doubt punching a ghost does much good, but the fire does, and it screeches as the flames burn it. I feed the fire with my magic, adding to it, until the creature caves in on itself and trickles like puss to the floor, where it puddles.

There's another in the next room at the base of the stairs, and I dispose it of without much problem. Velwyn is of no help, cowering behind me. At least he hasn't run.

"Killing them does nothing," he tells me. "They just keep coming back."

"I don't care. I just need them gone long enough to find Martin and get him out of here."

There's a door here, but Velwyn has said the bedroom was on the second floor, so up I go.

At the top of the stairs is the bedroom—and an empty bed. The floor is covered with more ghost goo, and one of the spirits is back, or was never dispatched, and I can feel my magicka drain to almost nothing as I fight it off. Once it's dead, I ignore my depleted magic and head out onto the balcony, and then into the study. Mercifully, there are no more ghosts—but no Martin, either.

"That door downstairs," I round of Velwyn, frantic anger fueling me. "Where does it lead?"

"T-the basement, and the servant's quarters."

Storming past him, I go back down and grab the handle. The door shakes, but won't budge. "It's locked."

Velwyn shakes his head. "That door doesn't lock. Or, at least, it's not supposed to. It must be stuck."

Martin might be down there.

My empty palm pops a flame into existance, burning in the air between my fingers.

"You could set the whole house on fire like that!"

"It's made of stone," I retort, hardly caring. "I've been setting ghosts on fire since we got here and I haven't heard you complaining."

"Could you just wait a minute?"

"Why? Do you have any ideas?"

I can tell by the worried look on his face he doesn't. But a second glance at the flickering light in my hand has me questioning it myself. Sure, blasting the door down would probably be quick and easy. But fire has failed me at every turn so far, hasn't it? I couldn't save the Emperor with my flames; I can't expect to rely on it to save his son.

 _The Prince of Destruction is born anew in blood and fire._

I close my hand, and the flame extinguishes with a _floosh_.

Backing up, I raise my clenched fist, wrapped in more purple smoke, and open it. The stormy black portal opens up, and my zombie pops through with a sick _plop_ and a moan in front of the door.

I command him, "break it down."

With a deathly wail, he rams it. Again. And again. And again. Each time, the impact is wetter, the bones in his body cracking, the wood beginning to splinter, the door shuddering in it's frame. I wince, watching the sad creature do it's work. Bits of its rotting skin and muscle stick to the door, coming off in clumps.

"Stop." The undead man waddles to a halt, turning to look at me in confusion. The room wreaks of his stench. "Just stop."

Stepping forward, I press a hand to his dead, mutilated skin, and pump the warm glow of a healing spell into him. The flesh knits back together. It isn't much of an improvement, as a zombie, he's already in pretty bad condition, but I feel better for it. His head totters to the side, blinking at me blankly, mouth hanging open. With a wave, I dismiss the spell.

" _That_ was disgusting."

I shoot Velwyn a glare that's probably lost on him under my hood in this dark lighting, but he gets the idea anyway, it seems, and backs up. I lean against the wall and slide down, plopping onto the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting for my magicka to restore," I snap. "It'll be a bit."

With a groan, he glances around the room, as though worried the ghosts might be back. Then he takes a seat on the bottom step.

I flex my fingers while we wait, preparing for the moment my spells will work again. When I feel the tingle, I opt for a skeleton, and watch it appear in much the same way the zombie usually does. Having not warned Velwyn, I get a bit of amusement watching him cry out and crawl halfway up the stairs before he realizes the dead warrior is mine.

"Break down the door," I repeat. The skeleton, slightly smarter than my other undead servant, weilds an axe and hacks away much more efficiently. Within minutes, there's a hole big enough for us to step through. Dispelling the skeleton, I put a leg in and duck through, finding myself at the top of a lesser quality staircase. The basement obviously wasn't built to match the standards of the manor above, which isn't too surprising, I suppose.

Down two short flights, with Velwyn stumbling in behind me, we find another room filled with broken furniture and ghost goo. Around the corner, we go down yet again. This time, our discoveries are much more fruitful

"Martin!"

Settled in the floor between an overturned barrel, streaks of dried blood, and a glowing sigil on the wall, the heir to an empire is bent over a parchment and what looks like a whithered hand. He looks up at his name and smiles.

"Erin! You were released from prison! That's wonderful!"

Behind me, Velwyn chokes. "You were in prison? Why doesn't that surprise me."

"You've been trapped in the basement of a haunted manor for an entire day, and your first words to me are about getting out of prison?"

"I _was_ worried about how I was going to get out of here," Martin admits, rising. "But I supposed that solving the mystery would fix the problem, so I've been rather occupied with that."

Well, at least he's safe.

"Have you figured out how to break the curse?" Velwyn asks.

"I think so, actually." Martin holds up the paper he'd been reading, offering it to Velwyn. "It's good you're here. I believe there is a passage here behind these markings, but only someone of Benirus blood can open it. I need you to have a look."

Velwyn reads the paper quickly, then all but gags at the growing symbols on the wall. Some of them might have been made with blood, like what's on the floor. He carefully steps around that, and gingerly runs his hands along the markings.

The wall cracks down the middle of the symbols, startling him. The wall breaks open, two halves pulling back like double doors, ushering him in. Instead, Velwyn bolts. I make to grab him, but Martin stops me.

"It's alright, we don't need him. He's afraid, and he's done enough. Come."

It's his house, and certainly not either of our responsibilities, but Velwyn disappears up the stairs and I turn back to Martin to find him already heading through the passage way. I dart after him, keeping close.

Assassins trying to kill him, and the man is likely to get done in by ghosts trying to do a good dead for a stranger he met at an in that tried to trick him. Next in line for the throne, everyone. I have my work cut out for me.

More glowing symbols are on the walls as we walk. Martin stops at a desk, picking up an open book. The pages are splattered with blood, more of that writing underneath. He sets the book back down, cringing, but I stow it away after he moves past. I don't know what went on down here, but I'm curious to find out—as soon as Martin is out of here and safe, that is.

The passage leads to an open room seemingly carved from the underground itself, a large stone alter in the center, surrounded by pillars and draped in tapestries. There's a skeleton laid across it in tattered robes, encircled with candles.

There are more skeletons in piles scattered around the room. On the other side of the alter between the two pillars is a raised platform with steps up to it, flanked by basins burning purple fire.

"If that door has been sealed, how are these still lit?" Martin asks, going to investigate.

"Purple fire is magical, isn't it?" The fire outside the Arcane University were purple, I remember. Bored, I peer at the skeleton on the alter. It looks important. It's also missing a hand.

"Your Majesty, didn't you have a severed hand earlier?"

"Your Majesty?" Martin looks baffled, then frowns. "Oh, right. I . . . suppose I should get used to that?"

I shrug. "Not if you do not wish. You're the Emperor's son. You could probably tell people to call you whatever you want. Would you prefer something else?"

"I . . . just Martin is fine, please." He quickly walks over the platform to join me by the alter. "And yes, I have a severed hand. I found it earlier while I was upstairs. It was with that note."

I simply point to where the hand is missing from the skeleton, and Martin reaches forward, picking up the arm's stump.

A deep voice suddenly rings out in the chamber, echoing from nowhere.

"I am Lorgren Benirus. In my life, I was a necromancer, and did unspeakable things in the name of achieving immortality for myself. Carahil saw my evil, and slayed me for my crimes. And now, in death, I see the righteousness in her actions. She was justified; I had to be stopped. I have accepted that, and my fate. All I wish now is to atone for my sins, and make my final peace with the Nine. Please, return my hand to my body, that I may be complete, and end this eternal nightmare."

The voice is anguished, full of sorrow, and Martin and I look to each other before nodding.

"We will grant you your peace, Lorgren Benirus. May the Nine grant you mercy in the afterlife." He reaches into the pocket of his robe, pulls out the skeletal hand, and places it in its proper spot on the alter.

The voice sighs.

"It never fails to amuse me how easy mortal man is to manipulate."

Martin starts, and I bristle, raking my eyes over the room again for a threat as the voice continues to speak.

"You fools have done the very thing that Carahil and her band sought to prevent by killing me; my ascension—to immortality! Death did not stop my spirit, and now I have regained my body. I will not underestimate you, as I did Carahil. You shall die, and I shall live once again! Ahahaha!"

The laughter is dark and powerful.

Regained his body, so the skeleton—vanishes in a swirl of smoke, only to reappear, glowing and armored to the teeth, wielding a magic staff. A lich.

"Gods' blood!" I rear back, pushing Martin away, and open my fist to summon up my zombie.

Lorgren's lich does the same, a skeletal warrior shielding him and locking arms with my monster.

Martin grabs my shoulder. "Let me through, Erin. I can fight, too."

"No," I shoot back. "You must be protected."

"Erin, please. I've held my own without you all day—I survived on my own, even protected others, when the daedra overran Kvatch. I can help without getting myself killed, I swear it. I don't intend to die; I just can't stand back and do nothing when I know I can be of use. You said it yourself—it is not in us."

Lorgren is shooting sparks out way, over the heads of the battling undead. I keep pushing Martin back, using myself as a shield, a protection spell defending me. Growling, I put my own hand on _his_ shoulder, and the purple smoke hardens around his body in a magical defense for him.

"Stay back and attack from a distance. I can't fight if I'm worrying about you."

"Understood. You take him from the front, I'll circle around."

We split just as my zombie falls, vanishing. I resummon him and pull out my physical dagger, jumping on top of the alter and lunging for Lorgren. The lich is solid, and the dagger stabs in him, sticking. I send heat through the iron, burning him before I pull it free.

Behind him, a flurry of ice hits him, crackling as it spreads over his shoulders and he struggles against its grip. Martin grins and falls back farther, using the pillar as a shield when Lorgren turns to retaliate. I take the opportunity to attack again.

I slash and slash, circling Lorgren as he tries to keep up with me. He hits me with an eletric charge, sending me into painful convulsing. Martin is there, ice flying, a cold chill in the air. I can see my breath fog in my face as the shaking in my muscles stops.

Farther back, the skeleton and my zombie have both vanished. I summon mine back and get the jump on Lorgren, who's moved towards Martin and hasn't noticed his monster is gone. At the same time, the three of us all attack. The zombie and I land physical blows while Martin hits him with a storm of ice. I can feel the cold through my blade, biting up into my hands. It's the opposite of my usual fire, numbing.

Lorgren's glow flickers as he screams, sending more shocks through me, but I hang on, twisting my knife, tugging it down, cutting. With an ear piercing wail, the glow implodes, and both Logren and I fall. I land on his body, once more little more than a skeleton, with dried skin plastered to the bone and a blank face frozen in terror. Dead again.

I push myself up, gasping, and pull my blade free. My zombie hobbles over to stand beside me, and I find it oddly comforting. Matin leans down to inspect me.

"Are you alright? Did my spell hit you?"

"A little." I grin, still feeling the chill in my shoulders. It's wonderful. "But I'm fine. You did well."

"I told you I could fight. I don't enjoy it, but I do what I must."

My heart is pounding in my chest, and I can still feel the adrenaline rushing through me. It's not uncomfortable, but I find myself questioning if I like it—like to do battle. I certainly feel alive. It comes so easily, so naturally, the fear and the fire and the scramble for life. It's terrifying, and exhilerating.

I find I don't like the idea of liking it, so I stop trying to decide.

I stand, and Martin follows. "Let's get out of this acursed place."

"Actually, I do believe we've suceeded in breaking the curse."

"I'm sure Velwyn will be overjoyed to hear the news. I, on the other hand, have the _heir to an empire_ to escort across the country. Now that he's done doing strangers deadly favors, of course."

Behind me, Martin laughs. The hole in the wall at the end of the passageway is sealed back up, but a mechanism beside the door opens it right back up. We step into a basement that is totally different from what was there before we'd entered.

"Hm. This must be what it was like before the curse took affect."

I agree. The room is tidy, well lit, and occupied by well made cuboards and storage containers, everything stacked and stored neatly, full to the brim with food and clothing and wine.

"I bet the upstairs looks even better." Martin is smiling, obviously pleased with the work we've done.

I start bagging the wine. "That prat tricked you into coming here and almost got the both of us killed. We've earned a little payment. These are good vintages; they'll sell well."

Martin cringes. "Erin, that's stealing."

"He owes you."

Martin sighs, but doesn't argue. I make him carry as much as he can, just like I do. And we head upstairs.

The house is in great condition now, and there's much to be admired. Everything is spotless, well decorated, and fully furnished—without a ghost in sight.

Outside, the sky is greying with purple hues, preparing for night. We've spent yet another day, me locked in prison, Martin trapped in a cursed manor. He frowns at the waning daylight, much like I do.

"We'll pawn the wine at the inn, inform Velwyn his pretty home is in the clear, bed down for the night, and head out in the morning."

"Shouldn't we hurry off?"

"Have a look at yourself in the pond and tell me if you think you'll last the trip. I bet you didn't sleep at all in that ghoulish place."

Blinking, Martin nods. "You have a point, I suppose."

Softly, I only repeat, "we leave in the morning."

We walk in relative silence, both of us beginning to feel the drain on our magic, most likely. I know I am. I feel stretched, strained. Shooting Velwyn a glare when we enter the inn, I ignore him to sell my wares to the innkeeper. He seems rather excited to get ahold of my pricey drinks, and pulls out his savings to take them off mine and Martin's hands. Velwyn looks pale when Martin joins me, but he doesn't say anything.

We've made a good five-hundred gold by the time we're done. And I'm not wasting fifty of it to get us a couple of rooms for the night.

"Come on, Martin."

He looks between the innkeeper and me in confusion as I walk away, then trots after me. "Are we not staying here tonight?"

"No. We can get free beds at the Mages Guild. I'm an Associate."

This information doesn't seem to surprise him. "I'm not, though. Will I be allowed?"

"If not, I'll set the place on fire."

"Erin, that's dangerous!"

"Hm."

Only a testy Bosmer playing with his pet daedra is up when we enter, but he goes upstairs to fetch the local guild head when I glare at him. I might be developing a talent.

An Altmer woman comes down the stairs a few minutes later, looking for all the world like she hadn't even gone to bed. She's dressed elegantly, and holds herself with poise, golden hair done up in a stylish bun.

"Hello, Associates. I am Carahil, head of Anvil Mages Guild. How can I help you two?"

"Carahil?" Martin turns to me, folding his arms over his chest. "Isn't that the mage Lorgren mentioned, who fought and killed him when he was alive?"

Carahil's brows shoot up and she answers before I do. "You know Lorgren? Has he risen again, like he claimed he would?"

Martin and I meet eyes, and we both nod.

"He tricked us into restoring his body," Martin explains. When Carahil gasps, he hurries on, holding his hands up to calm her. "No, it's already. He came back as a lich, but unless he had yet another backup plan for restoring himself after death, he's gone for good now. The curse he'd placed on his manor has certainly been lifted, if that's proof enough for you."

"Oh, my." Carahil places a hand over her breast, looking thoroughly impressed with us. "That's wonderful news. I thank you both for finishing the work I started so many years ago. I will take a few mages with me tomorrow and check the manor myself, just for my own peace of mind. But I am very grateful to you for what you've done."

"Oh, no, it's fine." Martin stutters a bit, smiling awkwardly.

"We just wish for a place to sleep for the night," I finally say. "We mean to leave town in the morning."

"Certainly. Though," Carahil trails off thoughtfully for a moment, staring at us, then smiles a swindler's smile. "Two accomplished mages such as yourself wouldn't have any trouble doing me a favor, would you? I would be more than willing to send recommendations to the Arcane University for your help. And if you're leaving town, anyway, it would be on your way."

"Um, I'm not—"

I cut Martin off, excitement returning at being reminded of the University. "What do you need?"


	5. Chapter 5 - Anvil Recommendation

By the time I kick open the gate and stear the horse under the shelter, it's past midnight and Martin is practically asleep behind me. His head fell forward, forehead pressing into my back, ages ago. Whenever it felt like he was tipping one way or the other and about to fall, I'd shift myself to stear him back into place.

It's my fault he's not in a bed sleeping, after all. But after Carahil agreed to pay for our rooms if we went on this mission, not to mention giving me my first recommendation towards the Arcane University, I was ready to head out the door—which was exactly what she wanted.

"Martin, we're here." I gently nudge my shoulder, shaking him.

He mumbles and raises up, rubbing his face. I dismount slowly, so as not to jostle him, and wait for him to come down, as well. Then we head inside the inn together, and I glance around until I spot a breton woman in the corner, whom I approach while Martin waits by the stairs, trying to hide his yawning.

"Hello, stranger. What can I do for you?"

"Arielle Jurard?"

Her face tightens and voice drops to a hissing whisper as she replies. "Are you the one Carahil sent? We cannot speak here. Rent a room for the night. If anyone asks, you are a traveling merchant."

I give a small, sharp nod, and she brightens back up.

"No, I'm sorry, friend. I'm afraid I don't know the way to Cheydinhal, but best of luck to you on your travels. Please, if you would excuse me."

I bow. "Sorry to bother you, ma'am."

Stepping away from her, I head over to the counter and tap it to get the inkeeper's attention, proceeding to fork over the money for two rooms.

"I'm sorry, we don't have two rooms available." The innkeeper looks rather confused, glancing between Martin and I. "Surely a young couple like yourselves don't need two seperate rooms, however?"

Martin stumbles on the steps.

"He's a priest," I say.

"Oh. I'm very sorry, miss. We still don't have two opens room, though. We do have a room with a double bed, if you don't mind."

"That's fine." Martin's tired. I'll sleep in the floor if I have to.

He smiles awkwardly, obviously trying to recover from his slip up. "Pretty late to be out, especially a priest. Are you his protege?"

"I'm a merchant," I lie easily. "We're traveling together out of convenience."

He smiles. "Ah. We get a lot of merchants through here. Or, at least, we used to . . . before, er . . . all these . . . these murders."

His face falls, and he tries to play it off as he calls over my shoulder. "Caminalda, would you mind swapping rooms? These two need a place to sleep and I only have one room open. Yours, at least, has the double bed."

An Altmer woman walks up, looking pleasantly curious. "Why certainly, I don't mind at all. Here."

She passes me the key, and the innkeeper gives her a new one as I hand over my money.

Caminalda smiles at me. "Enjoy the room. I'll need to run up and get my things, but I can personally gaurantee it's top notch."

"Thank you. You are very kind to switch with us."

"Oh, not at all."

Seemingly having decides to escort us up, Caminalda leads the way and I motion for Martin to follow. I catch Arielle watching us go out of the corner of her eye.

Caminalda keeps chattering away.

"Did I hear you say you were a traveling merchant?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, wow. You're terribly brave, then. I mean, aren't you afraid to be out on the road what with these murders lately? I've been afraid to leave the inn, and I'm not even a merchant. I've been here for days."

"I'm sure you're safe, miss. Travel with a group, maybe, if it really worries you."

"Maybe. Ah, this is your room."

We stop at the second door on the second floor, and I unlock it. Caminalda shuffles in, gathering up her things, then pops back out. "You two take care of yourselves, alright? Stay safe on the roads. I'd hate to hear of any more of these senseless deaths."

She frowns, shaking her head, but smiles again and waves as she heads to the next room. I wave back, as does Martin, and we go in, leaving the door open behind us. The room is rather cramped for two, so I sit on the chest by the wall and motion to the bed with my head.

"Sleep."

"But—"

" _Sleep._ "

He doesn't look happy about it, but Martin relents and climbs into the bed, crawling over to the far side by the wall.

"Wake me if you need help, Erin." He sounds exhasperated, like he doesn't believe I will.

"Yes, Sire."

He groans, pulling the blanket tighter to his chest, and yawns. "You'd have thought killing Lorgren Benirus, practially her nemesis, for the second time would have been task enough to warrant a recommendation."

I smirk. "Hear, hear."

His breathing falls into the even rythm of sleep in minutes. It's a soothing, satisfying sound. My emperor, sleeping, safe. Alive.

Caminalda heads back downstairs not long after. Then Arielle comes up, checks to make sure no one's around, and slips in. She edges the door closed, and when she turns around, I raise a finger to my lips and point to Martin. She raises a brow, but nods.

She steps close and whispers: "Head east along the Gold Road in the morning, towards Kvatch. I and a fellow battlemage will be following out of sight. Don't acknowledge us. If the mage attacks you, we will protect you, but do not hesitate in your own defense. Rest, and be ready."

I nod, and she quietly opens the door and slips back out. I lock the door behind her, and resmue my seat.

A candle is the only light in the room, and I watch the shadows it casts flicker across Martin's back. I stare, keeping a careful eye on the up and down movements of his body, listening intently to his breathing. The later it gets, the less soothing it sounds. I listen for it, watch him, almost with desperation. I feel a pounding fear building in my chest, and I don't know why. There's no reason for it. None at all.

Except that, sometimes, when the light flickers, he looks like he's wearing a long purple robe, and his hair is a light grey. And I'm terribly, terribly afraid that the sound of his breathing might stop. That I might blink, and he won't be moving anymore.

My eyes and head ache, my vision blurs, and the candle has burned out long before I convince myself to lay down and try to sleep. I'm still listening to him breathe, focusing on the the way his body shifts the mattress behind me, well into the night.

* * *

Something's wrong. I can feel it in my, an instinct on alert. My muscles tighten, chest becomes heavy, hairs stand up on end. My eyes shoot open, staring into the darkness. Something's wrong. Wrong. What?

There's a face in the dark. It's takes a while for my eyes to adjust, to make it out, but it's there; pale, shrouded in shadow, staring down at me, smiling.

My first instinct is to charge him, and I am tensed up, ready. A more powerful urge has me frozen in place, once again locked on the sound of Martin's steady breathing, the feel of his presense behind me. My current position is advantageous. I am between the intruder and my charge, a shield.

"Jumpy, aren't you?" The man speaks softly, humor in his low tone. "Do the lives you've taken weigh heavy on your mind? Do they keep you from an easy rest?"

Faces in black masks; faces under red hoods; the captain; Glenroy; Uriel Septim; the bandits; the wolves; the daedra; the Dremora; Count Ormellius Goldwine.

Fire. Blood and fire.

"You keep a strange bedfellow, though—for a murderer." My eyes are adjusting further, and I see his head tilt. He's seated on the chest, much like I was before I retired for the night, his legs crossed easily, twirling a dagger in his hand. "A priest, isn't he? From the look of him. Do your sins weigh so heavy? That certainly makes you an odd choice for our Mother to select. Remorse is not a quality we admire in the Brotherhood."

"I am not a murderer." My utterance is low, dark, and sure, fueled by a combination of panic and anger. This man has gotten into our locked room, is armed, and calls me a murderer? I have killed no one in a way that wasn't self defense. I don't like what I've done, and yes, maybe it haunts me, but murders they were not. I want this stranger gone, Martin out of danger. I'll kill him if I have to.

That thought strikes me. Killing comes so easy to me. Memories do not. Who's to say I'm not a murderer? I honestly don't know. Just because I am not _now_ , doesn't mean I wasn't once. I had been imprisoned in the Imperial City, after all. What had I done?

It doesn't matter! I repeat it to myself, glaring at the stranger's growing smile. Uriel didn't care about my past, and neither do I. That person I don't remember is gone. All that matters is the potential Uriel saw in me—my future, not my past, and what I do with that future.

I am not a murderer.

"Is that so?" The stranger is very amused by me. "The Night Mother seems to think otherwise. She has been watching you. And I am her voice, Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, here to offer you a place in our . . . rather unique family."

I don't know what this _Dark Brotherhood_ is, but I want no part in a "family" that sneaks in at night and smiles so gleefully as they recruit someone they believe a murderer. This whole set up wreeks, foul.

"I am not interested."

"Oh? But I haven't even told you your initiation task yet. It's oh so easy."

"I. Am. Not. Interested." I repeat.

The stranger's face falls, his dagger no longer twirling, and his expression is suddenly cold.

"It is your right to refuse, I suppose." He finally says. "We don't get refusals often. The Night Mother chooses well, and is never wrong. Please, accept this gift, a token from our family, in case you change your mind."

Lightly, feigning carefree once more, he tosses me the dagger. I catch it, eyes still on him. He grins.

"Tis a virgin blade, thirsty for blood. Should you reconsider, Rufio at the Inn of Ill Omen north of Bravil need not live any longer than you deem fit. Then I will find you again. Otherwise . . . "

He stands slowly, careful in his movements, and bows. Being showy about being non-threatening, I realize.

"I bid you farewell."

He vanishes. Literally. He is suddenly gone, and I'm staring at empty space, the only other occupant of my room laying behind me. Moving carefully, I stand and roam the room, checking everywhere. Upon closer inspection, I find the door unlocked and standing ajar. The intruder is long gone then, most likely. I shut it and lock it again, questioning the good it will do is someone already got in. This time, it was someone after me—someone apparently who knew of me from my past. What if, next time, it's an assassin after Martin?

Taking this mission was selfish, and a mistake. We'll finish it and then cut across country as planned.

The dagger is still on the bed, where I left it. It's a beautiful thing, made of ebony, intricately carved and lined with gold filigre in all the designs, even in the blade itself. It's light, almost weightless in my hand. And a gift from an obviously dangerous man.

I stow it away.

Sleep comes about as easily as it did before, and is plagued just as it was at Weynon Priory. I wake several times, and by the time daylight starts pouring in through the window, I feel no more rested than I had before I left for Kvatch.

Unwilling to attempt sleep again, I debate for a while and finally decide to lock Martin in our room and make rounds about the inn, checking for assassins and black robed strangers. Everything is clear. The morning air is cool, and the smell of the trees mixes with the ocean scents from the coast. I resist the urge to sit outside and instead return to the room, where I fight two more urges: to watch Martin breathe (again) and sleep (again).

Everything is exhausting. This day is a terrible one, and it's barely started.

Martin wakes earlier than I expected, and is surprised to find _me_ up.

"I assumed, since you stayed up later than I did, that you would sleep later."

I shrug. "I thought you would sleep later just because you were so tired."

"I'm used to getting up early. The chapel schedule and whatnot." He scoots over to the edge of the bed and sits there, pressing his hands to the small of his back and stretching.

"Shall we get breakfast before we head out?"

Martin rolls his shoulders and then looks to me. "Did you get the rest of your orders?"

"We're bait. Battlemages will shadow us until we're, hopefully, attacked. If that happens—"

Anticipating my words, Martin raises his brows, and I sigh.

"Fall back and fight from a distance, if at all?" He asks sardonically.

I narrow my eyes. "Precisely, _Your Majesty_."

He frowns, then sighs. "Right."

"Thank you."

I get up and head out, Martin watching me oddly before he follows. Splurging a bit, a pay for a bottle of Surilie Brothers, venison for myself and mutton for Martin, and we split a cheese wedge as well as the wine. Then we mount Prior Mayborel's horse and get a slow start, enjoying the morning as we ride, and I try to let the cool air dash away the tired ache that's taken me over. The wine helped a bit with that, but I feel even more sleepy than I did before.

We pass up the usual patrols pretty quickly, moving uphill and east only the Gold Road, as instructed. I'm surprised to find Caminalda out as well once we're quite a distance away. She's standing beside some rocks on the roadside, and looks like she's waiting for something.

When we get close, she turns our way—and sneers.

"You're journey ends here, I'm afraid, traveler. I'll be taking whatever you're carrying—after you're dead, of course. I do hope the two of you've got more on you than the last few. My recent kills have been most disappointing." Raising a hand, she begins to glow.

Jerking on the reigns, the horse gives a whiny and races past, while the two promised battlemages jump from either side of the road and charge on Caminalda. I twist the horse around once we're far enough, and climb off, passing Martin the reigns.

"You know the drill," I tell him, not waiting for his argument. "Your safety first."

His face torn with indecision, I leave him and rush back to the fight, summoning my zombie once I'm close. The two battlemages are locked with Caminalda, who's holding her own well. As to be expected from a serial murderer.

Strangers try to recruit me in the night when there's something like this sleeping in the same in? Tsking, I reach for my knife and circle around while she's occupied with the battlemages and the zombie. The rush is starting, my mind is racing, and I am moving, acting on plans I hadn't known I was making, seeing moves rather than thinking them, twisting the knife handle around in my hand slashing, falling into step with the others.

Caminalda rears away from me, ducks under the swinging mace of one of the mages, and breaks away from the fight, using the free moment to start her own barrage of spells. They're cut short as ice hits her from behind, Martin coming up on the battle. Instinctively, the mages and I spread out, using Martin and the zombie to fill the gaps in our circle, surrounding Caminalda.

Desperate, she gives out a throaty cry, blasting us with the force of her magic, knocking us back. An arrow hits her before she can run, however; a patrolman has joined us, bow at the ready, knocking back another arrow as Caminalda turns on him. It's distraction enough, and I duck under her from behind, jamming the knife into her side, right under the bottom rib.

She screams, trying to bring her elbow down at my face, but I dodge, slipping the blade free and letting her blood stream out, spotting the road. She stumbles back, grabbing at the wound—and walks right into the killing blow of Arielle's mace, slamming the back of her head in. Her face freezes in shock, eyes rolling, and she crumples, almost dragging Arielle down with her. The mage has to put a boot to the dead woman's back and tug to pull her weapon free of the skull. The sound is . . . unpleasant.

"Well done." Arielle says, her breathing rather heavy.

"Is everyone alright?" The patrolman asks, jogging over.

"Yes, yes, we're fine. We're with the Mages Guild." Arielle smiles, all business.

The patrolman seems relieved by the news, and it isn't long before he takes off again, having been given his thanks. I move to wipe my dagger on Caminalda's clothing, and stop. I'd grabbed the ebony dagger the stranger had given me. I clean it off and stash it away, out of reach this time.

Arielle is pleased at our work, it seems. "Few. Well, that's all done then. The Gold Road should be a bit safer now."

She smiles at us, and her companion bends down to pick up Caminalda's body, throwing it over his shoulder.

"We'll get this all cleaned up and sorted here," Arielle tells me. "You should head back to Anvil and let Carahil know it's all handled. And thank you for your help."

With that, she walks away, leaving me silently annoyed.

"We're returning to Anvil?" Martin asks in confusion. "Carahil didn't mention that when she told us it was on our way."

"No, she didn't." The horse is still a bit off, where Martin left it, and we walk over. "And it's out of our way. We can't waste _more_ time going back."

"But then you won't get your recommendation," Martin frowns. "Not reporting back won't go over well. We completed the mission; you should get the credit."

"We need to get you to Weynon Priory."

"Weynon Priory isn't going anywhere, and we're still on the move. Anyone tailing us will certainly be thrown off by the backtracking. We can risk it. You deserve your recommendation."

I pat the horse, taking a moment to think. I eye Martin, impressed again by how considerate he is.

I sigh. "If we get through this without you getting yourself killed rescuing puppies or something, you'll make a great ruler, Martin Septim."

I'm not sure what surprises him more: my estimation of his sense of self preservation, my evaluation of his potential as Emperor, or my use of his full name, probably the first time he's ever been called by it.

"I . . . thank you, Erin. The Arcane University will be lucky to have you."

I smirk. Not if strange men who think I'm a murderer are coming to recruit me in the night.

"Your Majesty." I offer the horse to Martin, who climbs on. I join him, and turn back west.

* * *

"Do you wish to talk about it?"

"No."

Martin continues softly after a moment. "Just because Carahil's pessimistic doesn't mean she's right."

"I'm aware."

"How many recommendations have you gotten?"

"That was my first."

"Then of course you haven't gained recognition yet. You still have plenty of time to prove yourself."

"Thank you, your Majesty."

Behind me, Martin sighs. The trip continues in relative silence, the _clip-clop_ of the horse and the occasional chriping of birds the only sounds.

I frown. I'm not meaning to be snippy with Martin. It's not his fault Carahil all but said it wouldn't do me any good to have her recommendation, as I'm too much of a nobody to get into the University. And after all that trouble, too. We killed a woman for her. Does that mean nothing in this land? Is life worth so little?

I suppose, as she was a murderer, her life _was_ worth little. Death is so easy to dish out, it almost sickens me.

Maybe I am a murderer. Maybe self defense doesn't matter. If killing is so easy, maybe it is sparing life that is the test.

Martin speaks up again. "How many recommendations do you need to get into the University?"

"One from each major city, not including the capitol." I try not to be so clipped with my answer this time.

"Then, if we keep on the road, we'll pass through Skingrad . . . "

"No." We are still on the road at the moment, headed towards Kvatch again, since from north of Kvatch is where I traveled before. "We can't take that much time, and besides, there could be assassins in the cities, waiting to hear word of you. We can't risk it."

"The task for the Anvil recommendation wasn't even _in_ the city," Martin points out.

"We have no gaurantee the other tasks will be like that one. What if they require us to stay even a short length of time within city walls? Another Oblivion Gate could be opened, and an attack launched against the town just because of our presense."

At Martin's silence, I feel bad. I shouldn't have mentioned the Gate.

"I'm not blaming you," I add quietly. "We just have to be realistic. These are the threats against us."

"I know. You're right. I'm sorry."

His defeated tone doesn't make me feel any better, as I obviously haven't made him, either.

I pull out my map. "Chorrol is almost straight north from Skingrad. It certainly wouldn't be as much of a hassle to navigate if we stuck to the road until then."

"But the risk to the city—"

"If the task takes longer than a few hours, we'll skip it. I can always return another time."

"It won't look good to the head mage if you ask for a task and then decline."

"I can win back any favor I lose," I reply reasonably. "I cannot replace any lives that could be lost by our daliance."

Martin's answer comes slow. " . . . this is still a bad idea, isn't it? You're just agreeing to appease me."

"And you only suggested it because you feel responsible for denying me my opportunity. Which you're not. If it weren't for you . . . "

"What?" Martin prompts me after a moment.

I stare straight ahead at the road, barely seeing it. "If it weren't for you, I'd be lost."

"What do you mean?"

Absently, I rub the shackles on my wrist beneath my sleeve. "If your father hadn't tasked me with finding you, I don't know what I'd be doing with myself. I have nothing. No life, no purpose."

"That isn't true. You're a member of the Mages Guild—"

"Which I joined when I visited the University to stock up on equipment and spells to protect you with." It's an odd thought. The next is even odder. " . . . I think I would have turned myself back in to the guards after your father died, if he hadn't asked me to find you before that. Gone back to rotting in prison. It's what I deserve."

"It isn't." Martin says this with a casual conviction that has the world snapping back into focus around me. "I do not know what you have done in the past, but you have a strong sense of duty, that I do know. You don't belong in a prison."

I swallow, hard. "Uriel doesn't belong in a grave."

"Most do not." Martin matches my quieter tone. "Did you . . . know him well? The Emperor?"

 _The Emperor_ , not _my father_. It must still be so strange to him.

"I did not." We're coming up on the Inn again. The horse turns it's head slightly, but when I don't steer towards it, she settles back into her forward trot. "I knew him less than a day."

This surprises Martin, as his voice shows. "Really? The way you speak of him, I had though you better aquainted."

"Hm. You are a lot like him. Or at least, from what I knew of him. He did not care about my past either, or what I had done to land myself in the Imperial Prison. He believed in me, said he saw hope for the future, and I was a part of it. That he'd seen me in his dreams, and the gods had brought us together. I was the omen of his death, and he smiled at me."

"He knew he was going to die." There is pain in his voice, and I suddenly wish we were talking about anything else.

"Yes. He'd known for some time, from the way he spoke of his visions. He thought it was a blessing, to know. Said he'd made his peace. He wasn't afraid at all. He mourned for the soldiers who died defending him, though. Only a Blade named Baurus and I made it out alive."

"You said you were with him? When he . . . "

"I was trying to protect him, but I failed. I'm sorry."

"No, it isn't your fault, I told you. I just . . . I wanted to know . . . but if you can't talk about it—"

The sky above rumbles, lightning flashing. The day has grown grey and dark.

" . . . there was a secret escape tunnel in the prison. I was placed in the cell by mistake, and the Emperor's guards—the Blades—had to lead him through it. That's how we met. The Blades didn't want me along, but Uriel . . . like I said. We went through some underground ruins. They must have known ahead of time, though, because we were ambushed at several places down there. We were headed for the sewers, but they cut us off before then. Uriel was pinned in a dead end, and I was guarding the door while the Blades faught, but there was a secret passaged in the room and . . . this assassin just . . . came up to him from behind."

We lapse into silence. The sky keeps growling.

"I killed him. The one who did it." It's important to say. At least, to me. Maybe a priest won't agree.

"Thank you." His answer is quiet, and holds no pleasure, no satisfaction. But it sounds sincere. I don't know if it's for avenging his father or just for simply telling him about what happened. I suppose it doesn't matter.

Uriel was a stranger to him. But he was his father. It must be difficult.

If I ever meet my family, the family that I don't remember, I expect it will feel similar. I find myself hoping I don't. I don't even want to think about it.

We ride past the fork to Kvatch and have gone still aways before the rain finally starts. It pours down in sheets, no slow start or mercy. I speed the horse on until we pass a camp on the side of the road, apparently abandoned, and I pull off and we both clambor under the cover of the tent. And then stare at the horse, who stares back, still be soaked.

After a lot of uncomfortable shifting around, Martin, the horse, and I are all crowded in the tent, bed roll and chest shoved under one of the smaller pup tents outside to make room.

After a few minutes, Martin puts his hand over his face and snorts. "This is ridiculous."

I raise a brow at him. "Do you want me to throw the horse out?"

"Of course not. Not after all the work it took to get it in here."

I snort. "Alright then."

Ducking around the horse's head, I step out and back into the rain.

Martin gapes. "What are you doing, Erin?"

"Well, someone had to go. There wasn't room. And since you refused to throw out the horse, and you're a prince and whatnot . . . "

All but rolling his eyes, Martin says, "You'll catch a cold."

I cock an eyebrow. " _Bosmer_."

"Natural disease resistance isn't immunity, Erin."

"It feels nice out here, though." Closing my eyes, I raise my head up to the sky, letting the water hit me and run down, little puddles forming in the grooves of my face. "It's cold."

"You just said it felt nice."

"I think I like the cold," I muse, letting out a deep breath. My body shivers from the drastic chilling, and it reminds me of when Martin's frost spell hit me in the fight with Lorgren. "Hey, can you teach me ice magic?"

"You don't know any?" Martin sneezes, and I shake the water off my face to look his way. He wipes his nose, having apparently gotten to close to the tent entrance and been hit with a few droplets.

I grin. "Only the basics, weak things. Fire comes much more naturally to me than anything."

"Really? I thought you were more of a conjuror. You summoned that zombie in those fights before, then fought mainly with a dagger."

My good mood falls a bit. "I'm favoring Conjuration more lately, yes. But that's because fire has done me little good when I needed it."

I suppose my tone gives my thoughts away, because Martin only says, "Emperor Uriel."

"'The Prince of Destruction is born anew in blood and fire.' The Emperor said that to me. And to find his son, and 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion.'"

"Oblivion? He knew his enemy could open Oblivion Gates?"

"There's no telling what he knew now. But he had visions his whole life, from what I understand. And if he said this Prince of Destruction would be born anew in blood and fire, then I want no part in either."

The horse shifts nervously as the thunder sounds again, and Martin strokes her neck soothingly. "You admired him greatly."

"He trusted me when I didn't trust myself. He gave me purpose when I had none. I was alone and lost, and a convict, and he was kind and encouraging."

Martin smiles. "It sounds as though the Emperor was more of a father to you than he ever was to me."

I shake my head. "I told you, I knew him less than a day."

"And I never met him."

We trail into silence.

"You look like him," I finally say.

Martin glances up at me. "Do I? You said that before."

"Very much so." I can see him in almost his every feature; his blue eyes, the way wrinkles form around them when he smiles, the set of his jaw, the way his hair lays.

"But not your nose," I add a bit teasingly. "That must come from your mother."

He laughs. "So it must."

"And you are both easy to listen to. You don't sound alike, but . . . You have a wonderful voice, like a smooth, aged mead. I could listen to you speak for ages."

He dips his head as he chuckles. "I get that rather often, actually. A helpful talent to have as a priest."

"You have the same charisma. I look forward to serving you as my Emperor, if that is what it comes to. From what I have seen of you so far, you would make a wise one, and I would be proud to follow you."

Martin doesn't answer for several seconds, and his throat bobs, before he looks up and smiles crookedly. "Well, you haven't know me very long yet."

I raise my brows, but don't respond to his doubt. "Jauffre said he kept an eye on you for the Emperor. That he asked after you from time to time."

"Did he?" Martin casts his eyes down again. "I wonder just how much he knew of me, then."

That statement doesn't seem to be directed at me, so instead I ask, "How about those Frost lessons?"

Martin smiles and shakes his head. "Not in the rain."

"Fair enough."

"Now get back under here."

"Yes, Sire."

"Don't start that again."

"Whatever you say, Sire."

* * *

When the rain lets up, I spew enough fire at the leftover kindling to melt metal, and it burns bright enough for at least Martin and the horse to dry up. I, having stood in the rain, remain damp in the saddle as he gallop our way down the road towards Skingrad, trying to make up some of the lost time.

Not far down the road, we are accosted by a bandit, an opportunity which, to Martin's horror, I insist we use for him to teach me Frost magic.

"Erin, I don't think this is the time—"

I hop off the horse and flex my fingers, cracking the knucles and circling the bandit. "It can't be that difficult. Tell me where it draws from. I feel Fire magic in my back and shoulders."

"Well, I normally feel the cold start in my chest I suppose." Martin's eyes dart back and forth between me and the Dunmer woman, who's backing up to knock an arrow.

I cast a protection spell and swat the shot away. "I think Shock starts in the gut. It makes me nauseous."

"Careful not to store too much of the magic in you instead of chanelling it out, or you could freeze your heart and lungs."

"That happens?" The band takes another shot, and I dodge, shrugging my shoulders and trying to feel for the chill inside me.

"It isn't pleasant."

"Sounds positively deadly."

"Are you two serious!?" The bandit bellows, slamming down her bow. "Don't ignore me! I'll kill you!"

"Doubtful." She charges me with a roar, and I feel the cold. It starts in the middle of a deep, calm breath, and travels down my arms like a breeze, releasing a flurry from my fingers. It hits her in the shoulder and she stumbles sideways before regaining her footing and launching her attack again, this time weilding magic of her own.

Martin's climbed off the horse to join the fight. She's hit from both sides, one after the other, with icy cold—Martin's of the more powerful variety.

I move in while she's focused on his and knock her off her feet, and hold my knife to her throat while she's down. Martin moves toward me, as though to stop me, then slows, realizing I'm not making the move to kill.

I meet the woman's eyes very carefully. "If you run and leave us be, I'll spare you."

"Y-yes, a-anything."

I pull away and step back. She shuffles away fearfully—then picks up her discarded bow and aims an arrow at Martin.

It hits me in the back of the forearm, both of which I've raised in front of my upper torso and face as I threw myself in front of Martin. I surge forward, angry, my mercy squandered, and I feel the heat build in my shoulders again. The woman tries to turn and run, but I chase her down, reaching my uninjured arm forward, grabbing her, wrapping the other—arrow and all—around to her grab her face.

I push the fire away—and pump ice into her skin. She shrieks as it freezes her, seeps into her skull, down her neck. It doesn't get much farther than that, my magicka drained, but that's far enough. I shove her away and her head hits the ground like a rock, frozen solid.

I yank the arrow out of my arm, seething. "Assassins after the Emperor didn't kill me. Bandit trash certainly won't."

"Erin! Are you alright?" Martin runs up, horse forgotten behind us.

"Do you know how to sew?" I ask.

Martin pales, reaching to take my arm and inspect it. "Do you need stitches?"

"No. I'm just accumulating a lot of holes in my robes. They're important to me, I don't want to ruin them."

"They are odd." He pushes up my sleeve, pausing at my shackles, but continues up to where the arrow pierced, which is still bleeding; a steady, thin little current down my arm. "Don't see many red robes around, at least not of this quality."

"They were what he was wearing." I should tell him. He should know. "The assassin. It's stained with Uriel's blood."

Martin's hand stops, hovering over my wound. "I see. We should bandage this up, stop the bleeding until we can get it looked at."

"Right. I'll heal it up when my magicka's back."

"We can check around Skingrad for a tailor."

" . . . too much time."

Martin looks around for a moment, before leaning down to tear off a strip from the bottom of the bandit's skirt. He begins wrapping my arm with it. "I can get it done while you get your recommendation."

" . . . I don't want to take it off."

"The blood stains the robes, Erin. Not you. You don't have to bear them."

I pinch the front of the fabric, pulling it away from my body to peer at the discoloration. "Blood and fire."

"But you aren't using fire anymore."

I drop the front of my robe and exhale, feeling the chill tickle through my torso. My breath fogs.


End file.
